


You Can't Become Unreal Again

by sexonastick



Series: Some Assembly Required [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Pitch Perfect (2012)
Genre: Alternate Timelines, Dark, F/F, Gen, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Triggers, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-17
Updated: 2015-12-01
Packaged: 2017-12-05 14:13:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 41,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/724205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sexonastick/pseuds/sexonastick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some days you get to be a hero. But there are other days, too.</p><p>One time Beca Stark let Chloe Barton down, and all the days after that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is an alternate timeline from the rest of the Alternate Universe. It's an AU of an AU. An Earth 2. A classic Marvel _What If?_ story, and in that same vein it is pretty dark.
> 
> I'm probably under-selling it.
> 
> This fic is really, _really_ dark, potentially triggery, and you might not want to read it. Seriously. (More specific trigger warnings to appear in chapter 2.)
> 
> Once again, thanks to [theagonyofblank](http://archiveofourown.org/users/theagonyofblank) for encouragement, help, and more than one particularly sadistic suggestion. But I must say that this fic _would not exist_ without [booklover81](http://archiveofourown.org/users/booklover81). For better or worse.

*

        I heard you fell into a rabbit hole,  
        covered yourself up in snow.  
        Baby, tell me where'd you go  
        for days and days? - Bright Eyes, _Down in a Rabbit Hole_

        "Animals don't behave like men," he said. "If they have to fight, they fight;  
        and if they have to kill, they kill. But they don't sit down and set their wits  
        to work to devise ways of spoiling other creatures' lives and hurting them." - Richard Adams, _Watership Down_

*

Being a hero is a mathematical equation. It's about odds and angles, timing and missed moments. Most of the time you make the right move, you save the day, and a lot of people get to go home safe.

Some days, things go wrong.

One of these days, Chloe is in the back of a van.

She's probably smiling, thinking Beca will save her. Thinking her brother and Aubrey can't let her be dragged away to the pits of hell -- to be pulled apart, sewn back together again, and who _knows_ what else.

Except that they do. They _do know_ , they've been told stories every day since birth. Chloe knows most of all, and she's probably frightened.

The van turns a corner, and probably she's not smiling anymore.

*

Beca slams her fist into the ground until the metal plating cracks. She screams until her throat is raw and shatters her helmet against the side of a brick building, but it won't help.

Nothing brings Chloe back.

They were too late. She fucked up. 

Chloe is gone.

*

Nothing is right without her.

The shots of Beca Stark trashing someone else's property -- maybe she took out some of her anger on a car, so fucking sue her -- on East 47th run on a loop, and there's no one there to make her laugh at the absurdity.

There's no one there to make Beca laugh at all.

*

Chloe is gone for three weeks exactly, almost to the hour, and then she's found. It's like a miracle.

The men holding her captive are shot and killed. Beca wants to see the photos, _demands_ to see the bodies, but she's told no. Like she's too young.

As if any of them are _too young_ anymore.

*

"Family only," says the guy standing outside the intensive care ward that Beca's dad is paying for, and Beca bristles with all the rage she's been holding inside for three fucking weeks.

"We _are_ family," she says in a growl, a literal fucking growl, like she's imagining removing his jugular. Kind of, she is. 

"Beca, sweetheart," her mom says, trying to sooth, placing a hand on Beca's tensing shoulder -- which she _pulls away_ from, because the last thing Beca wants is to feel comforted when all Chloe's had for _weeks_ is pain. "We're not really."

"Yes, we _are_."

*

They let her inside -- only her -- and immediately Beca regrets her own stubborn bullshit.

Chloe's face is bruised and swollen almost beyond recognition. This is invasive and unfair.

This is something _Chloe_ might not want her to see. 

Except then she opens up her eyes and smiles. "Hey, you." It's not a normal Chloe smile -- it doesn't reach her eyes -- but it's not like Beca can blame her. It's not like Beca will probably find fault with her _ever again_ , because she's here and she's alive.

Fuck everything else. 

"Yeah, me." Beca feels self-conscious all of a sudden. Like maybe over three weeks she would have thought of something _right_ to say. "And you." 

But maybe that's all there is.

*

The smiles aren't the same and Chloe doesn't always laugh when she used to, but it's still so nice.

If things aren't right, it's Beca's job to make them that way again. She _owes_ Chloe that much, at least.

*

(There are _so many things_ that Beca owes Chloe now. She has to make up for every bruise and broken bone. Every hurt that she _allowed_ to happen with her own mistakes.

She can't _make_ any more mistakes now.)

*

So Beca tries. For the first time in her life, she tries _with all of herself_ , every second.

She remembers all of Chloe's favorite things. The movies she used to force Beca to watch -- well, _force_ is a strong word for anything Chloe does, more like gently harassed -- and they settle in for movie night. Beca kicks out Jesse, and makes it a girl's night. She even puts up with Aubrey.

In fact, she and Aubrey are _both_ on their best behavior.

Which means Beca basically threatens to shoot a hole through Aubrey's chest with a high-powered laser if she fucks this healing process up for Chloe by bringing _any_ of her personal beef with Beca to movie night. And it works.

They curl up under a blanket, eat popcorn, and laugh at all the jokes.

So maybe Chloe's laughter is quieter, more subdued. Beca laughs twice as loud to make up for it.

*

If there's a balance to be found in friendship, Beca's pretty sure she's worked it out. Chloe has always been the one to give -- it's a thing that she does, knowing what people need -- and it turns out to be a lot of work.

Beca spends more time at the Barton household than she ever has before. She props herself against the headboard of Chloe's bed and watches her and Jesse make a game of tossing a shuriken at a picture of (still somehow) current Mayor Michael Bloomberg II. 

"I'm pretty sure that's illegal, you know," Beca says while tossing a pillow in the air and catching it. Way less deadly, sure, but still a workout on the wrists. "Like -- aren't you guys basically threatening a politician? The children of two deadly assassins, no less." She grins and wiggles her eyebrows.

" _We're_ not assassins, Beca," Jesse says, and he laughs too. "Jesus, Chloe and I can barely--" 

Chloe's next shot lands right between the eyes, buried halfway into the wood. "Go on." She shoots Jesse a sharp look and then goes to retrieve the weapon.

Something's off -- like so that even _Beca_ can sense it -- and she slides from one end of the bed to the other in one slow, cautious movement. "Chloe…"

"'We can barely defend ourselves.' That's the punchline." Chloe rips the shuriken from the wall and it tears off some of the wood paneling with it. She tosses it back at Jesse carelessly, and sneers, "You've told that joke before." 

He tries to catch it, but he fumbles. One of the blades cuts him on the way to embedding itself in the floor. "Jesus!" 

" _Chloe_ ," Beca says again, because this was just a game and now suddenly it's not.

Maybe nothing gets to be just a game anymore.

"What?" Chloe says without turning around to face them.

But Beca says it again, more urgently; "Chloe, _seriously_." 

Chloe's only half-turned when the pillow smacks her in the face.

So okay, _some_ things are still a game.

*

Beca has this _one spot_ where she's ticklish, that basically only the twins and her parents know about.

Chloe dives on it now, going in for the kill. 

She's fucking fiendish, and that's kind of a relief. It's really _normal_ to feel both twins piled on top of her, all of them shaking with laughter. It's _weirdly_ normal, actually, because they're the only people Beca will let get this close -- let in close at all -- and they're almost suffocating her now.

Like literally, not as a metaphor. She has Chloe's elbow digging in at her hip, and Jesse is splayed out on top of both of them in a dramatic crucifixion. The actual tickling has long since stopped, and _now_ they're just going to squash her to death, apparently.

"Um," she actually squawks -- but would deny it until her dying breath. "Guys?" 

"Do you hear something?" Jesse asks in the general direction of the ceiling.

Beca puffs hair out of her face and tries not to think of all the ways she could make him suffer, because she's trying to stay _positive_ for Chloe. (But she could make him suffer _a lot_ , for the record.) "Seriously. Guys." 

Chloe laughs softly and places one hand against Beca's sternum, like she's bracing herself. Or Beca. Or -- she's not sure really. It's just _there_ now, and really warm. "Shh, if he falls asleep I'll toss him off."

Which sounds like a feasible plan, and anyway -- it's _really_ warm and comfy. Not just Chloe's hand, all of it. (Though okay, Chloe's hand is _extra_ nice for whatever reason. Maybe just because Beca missed it so much?) So she relents and rests her cheek on the rug, counting down the seconds.

Or maybe just counting the heartbeats, which must be _Chloe's_ heart pressed so close to hers. It can't be Beca's, which doesn't really make that same sound anymore -- not since her dad started fucking with her insides. With her help, of course. 

Nobody goes inside Beca without her direct supervision, okay?

But point is that it must be Chloe's heart that's making Beca's breathing even out to match it. It's _crazy_ how calm it is. Kind of nice. 

Like maybe things can be normal again. Eventually.

*

Chloe has nightmares.

She doesn't need to say it for Beca to _know_. (Maybe more than any of them, Beca knows about the bad dreams you don't really talk about aloud.) It's there in Chloe's eyes -- something she's holding back from all of them.

Beca doesn't know how to fix it -- not even in herself -- so the best she can offer is comfort, which has never qualified anywhere on a list of her strong points. But she tries.

So when Chloe stays late enough one night, Beca doesn't hesitate to say, "You can stay over, you know." She's not really sure what makes her think _her presence_ would be a comfort, but it's about the only thing she's got to offer. "Tonight." Beca swallows, and (strangely) her heart flutters. "If you want."

Chloe doesn't look away, doesn't blink. Her eyes are so fucking blue and right now they're so _still_ it's like perfect, clear ice.

"I mean, there's the guest room, or--"

"Here's fine," Chloe says, so quiet Beca almost doesn't hear it over the beating of her own heart. 

They're in Beca's bedroom and the space between them suddenly seems very small.

*

It doesn't get any larger once they're both in bed together.

If anything, everything starts to feel more compressed. The room feels smaller, and so does the bed. The space in between them feels like it's shrinking by the second. 

Even Chloe looks smaller, half curled up on her side above the covers. Like almost small enough to fit neatly against Beca if she --

But she sticks to her own side of the bed, only scooting a little closer. The last thing you need in the middle of a nightmare about _captivity_ is to wake up with a Stark attached to your shoulder like a leech, she's pretty sure.

So Beca leaves Chloe her space.

Even if that space appears to still be shrinking.

*

Until eventually there's only about an inch in between them.

When Beca extends her hand, she can feel the bed shifting every time Chloe breathes out. 

It's kind of comforting, really.

Because Chloe's _really_ back. She's here.

It kind of makes Beca smile.

*

She falls asleep, and wakes up in a cave.

It's been the same dream since early childhood -- ever since first hearing stories of her father's capture and detainment -- but that doesn't make it easier to keep the panic from tightening in her chest. 

The room is wide and spacious, cast in shadows. Voices echo.

So do screams.

In the dreams, Beca is never able to build fast enough to satisfy them. In the dreams, she always dies.

They usually shoot her in the back of the head, point blank, and she tries not to cry as it happens.

*

This time, she doesn't finish the dream. The gun doesn't go off.

Because she's choking.

*

She is _really_ choking, and her whole body shudders into awareness with a heavy gasp as Chloe's fingers loosen their grip.

And then tighten again.

"Shh," she hisses from up above, only inches from Beca's (wide, frightened, fucking _terrified_ ) eyes. So close that Beca's almost going cross-eyed trying to track Chloe's mouth when she says, "One word and I'll take your god damn tongue."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings [here](http://perpetuallyfive.tumblr.com/unreal-trigger). Obviously, spoilers.
> 
> \--

*

        I can't go back to yesterday, because I was a different person then. \- Lewis Carroll, _Alice in Wonderland_

        All the world will be your enemy, Prince of a Thousand Enemies;  
        and when they catch you, they will kill you. \- Richard Adams, _Watership Down_

*

Beca wakes up chained to a chair in an empty cave. It's wide and spacious, cast in shadows.

Which means this is a dream. 

It's a dream and the blood on her shirt (the swelling over her left eye) isn't real -- it _can't_ be real -- and once she wakes up, she'll be able to tell Chloe, and they'll both laugh about it. 

Because what kind of crazy fucking dream has Chloe Barton beating the shit out of Beca Stark before putting her in chains?

At least Beca's subconscious usually picks _rational_ fears. 

Though it did have the good sense to place the door to the room directly at Beca's back, so that a (totally imagined) shiver goes up her spine when it creeks open. 

"Oh, good." It's Chloe's voice, echoing as it fills the room. "You're awake."

But this is a dream, so that's pretty funny, actually. Beca laughs. "Not really." 

Suddenly, Chloe is _much_ closer (like touching close), and it catches Beca off-guard. She didn't hear her approaching across the dirt floor, which you'd sort of expect. 

(Except that Chloe _is_ Natasha's daughter, and apparently Beca's subconscious keeps track of even that much.) 

Also a little weird is the almost intimate way Chloe's fingers are working themselves into Beca's hair, toying and teasing (even scratching), and then flicking lightly at the tip of her ear. "Here," she says, her voice feather soft. "Let me help."

Then abruptly, her fingers twist. They pull, tangle themselves up in Beca's hair, and _slam_ her head against the back of the chair. 

Not just once, but twice. Three times. Four -- bingo, jesus, fucking -- 

" _Fuck_ ," Beca shouts, and she tastes blood in her mouth. She must have bit her tongue, and it must have been hard because the taste is _filling_ her mouth.

For a moment, the irrational fear swims up in Beca's mind that she might _drown_ in her own blood this time instead of being shot.

But then Chloe creeps around into view with a smile on her face and a slow saunter to her hips, and that doesn't seem very likely.

Because this isn't a dream.

* * *

"Due to your parents' high profile," says a voice from the other side of the sofa; "it's very likely that you'll be kidnapped."

Beca is thirteen years old -- two weeks away from starting at public school -- when Natasha approaches her with the most random of all non-sequiturs possible. "… what?" 

She and Chloe have spent the afternoon watching trashy reality tv shows -- mostly as background noise while Beca dozes against Chloe's shoulder -- but a commercial break sent her friend to the kitchen in search of food and now Beca's left all alone with Chloe's _mom_.

Natasha is intimidating enough under normal circumstances, and just now she's standing especially straight, hands clasped behind her back. It's almost terrifying. "Your mother wants me to talk with you."

"Oh," Beca says slowly, _really_ not liking the sound of that. Anything qualified specifically with "your mother" instead of "your parents" tends to have heavy implications. _Beca's_ mom might not be a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, but that doesn't keep her from being absolutely frightening when she wants to be. "Okay, so…" She sits up straighter. "Let's talk."

"Come to the gym; we'll talk there."

Okay, _now_ Beca's completely alert, not even a trace of drowsiness left. "What? No." Because she's _pretty sure_ that in the Barton family _"come to the gym"_ is code for _"I intend to kick you repeatedly in the gut,"_ and really no thank you.

"… come to the gym or leave the house, Beca," Natasha says, barely concealing her impatience. "It's not a request."

Out of the corner of her eye, Beca spots Chloe start to enter the room before quickly doubling back once she realizes what's going on. 

Beca frowns, apparently abandoned in her time of need. "What happens if I leave?"

"I talk to your mother."

Simple. Direct.

Effective.

Having to choose between taking a pummeling and facing the wrath of her mom isn't _really_ a choice at all. 

"Okay," Beca grunts. " _Fine_."

*

Beca isn't just short, she's small in general. Compact, you might say.

It means she'll lose just about every fist fight she's ever inclined to get into -- which is why she _doesn't_ \-- and the pointed way Natasha keeps looking at the _boxing ring_ in the center of the room has got to be a joke. 

Except she won't _stop_ looking. 

"No," Beca finally says, by way of clarification. "No way."

Like, if it were somehow unclear that there is no way in hell she's fighting with _anyone_ in the Barton family -- who have all been punching each other just for kicks for _years_ now. 

Natasha smiles, and it's like a cat about to snap the neck of a bird. "Oh, well. Have it your way." Suddenly, she's at Beca's side, like _lightning_ fast, except you can generally see lightning's movement across a space and it feels like Natasha is just _there_ , and then her leg is _there_ , sweeping Beca off her feet. Very literally.

"Oh!" Turns out the floor of the gym _really hurts to land on_ \-- like probably a lot worse than the springy center of the boxing ring, which is looking _fantastic_ right about now. "… shit."

"Well?"

"… think I'll just lie here," Beca mumbles, trying not to cringe as visibly or as dramatically as she feels like she wants to.

And now there's a knife in Natasha's hand. 

From her position on her back, gazing at the ceiling, Beca can't even be sure how she sees it so immediately, but _that's a fucking knife_ and suddenly she's crab-crawling in a mad scramble under the rope and into the ring.

"Much better," and this time Natasha's smile is less pointed, but not really any more comforting.

* * *

"More awake now?"

Chloe's voice drifts in from the black edges of consciousness, pulled through the throbbing ache at the back of Beca's skull. "Uhh," is all she says in response, and Chloe laughs.

It's not a pleasant sound. 

She slips down into Beca's lap -- pressed _close_ enough that when she breathes out in another low chuckle, Beca feels it on her throat -- and whispers, predatory and tense, "You _really_ need to answer when I speak to you." 

Her fingers wrap themselves at the base of Beca's neck, twisting in her hair and _pulling_ until their eyes meet. 

There's a fire there that matches Chloe's usual intensity, but there is no other sign of her friend in that hard, cut-off expression. Beca nods, and she releases. The smile that follows is sickening. "Much better."

When she shifts, the leather makes a strange whispery sort of sound across the denim of Beca's thigh. 

Like an exhausted sigh. 

But they're only just getting started.

"I'm going to break this hand now," Chloe says, her voice low and even. This is her mother's voice when explaining a difficult procedure straight from the manual. It's clinical and detached.

Except that when Chloe tweaks at the wrist, bending until Beca gasps, she smiles just a little bit wider. 

The pleasure creeps into her voice as she continues, saying, "The bones might not all heal back properly, so I'm going to need you to answer a question for me, and I want you to be honest." Chloe's mouth is so close to Beca's ear that she can feel her tongue with every syllable. "Does it frighten you more to think you'll never work on your little science projects again, or that you'll never _fuck_ me with this hand?"

And the bottom drops out of Beca's stomach, out of the room, out of the fucking world. "I--" she says, because it's the closest to words she can comprehend when her head is thinking both _but I don't want to fuck Chloe!_ and _yes you do, you fucking liar_ at precisely the same time, and all her mouth can do is stammer, saying, "I don't-- I--"

"Let me help you," Chloe whispers as she snaps the first finger, and the world pulls itself back into much sharper focus. 

There isn't a question anymore of whether or not Beca has ever wanted anything other than for this moment to end. The second finger breaks and this moment is all that has _ever_ existed, and ending it is the _only_ thing she wants. " _Jesus_ , Chloe…"

"Shh, I know." Chloe presses her mouth against Beca's temple, kissing in time with the pounding of her heartbeat. "It's almost over."

The sound of breaking bone is so familiar. She's heard it before.

Once as a small child tripping and breaking her wrist running through the lab, yes.

But also in an explosion. The one she still sees sometimes in her nightmares. 

Beca screams, and that sound is familiar too.

* * *

"Learn when to stay down," Natasha says, but Beca doesn't listen.

When Chloe is her sparring partner, she always springs back to her feet. It's hard to show weakness in front of your best friends. "I'm fine," she grunts. 

Natasha apparently takes that _completely the wrong way_ , though, and suddenly she's standing in the ring, stepping in front of her daughter.

She's not even wearing _gloves_.

"Wait, no," Beca sputters. "I said I was _fine_ , not suddenly six foot four and two hundred pounds."

Natasha shrugs before landing two quick body blows in succession and finishing off with a hard hit to the jaw. Beca goes down, and this time she's not very quick to move. 

"Better," Natasha calls over her shoulder as she ducks back out of the ring.

* * *

Beca isn't sure how long she's left alone with the throbbing pain in her hand.

This is pretty standard, from what Natasha has told her. They want to keep you guessing, worrying and wondering. The idea from their perspective is to let your own mental weakness lead to eventual physical collapse. Turn the mind against itself; become your own worst enemy.

You're supposed to turn it off. Think of something else. Pretty flowers or some shit.

The trouble is Beca always practiced thinking of her friends. Of Chloe.

She doesn't _have_ an alternate happy fucking place to go to, so it's hard to even just _contain_ the shiver when the door opens again. But she tries.

And then silence.

Except for the sound of heavy breathing, so incomprehensible here in this makeshift hell. As if there could be anyone else as disoriented and afraid as Beca herself.

That's when _she_ steps into view. And she's real. She's the real Chloe, and Beca _knows_ because both their eyes are wide with the same kind of fear. "… Beca."

It doesn't make sense, not really, but neither has anything else. At least Chloe's expression -- the slightly guarded, assessing look in her eyes -- is familiar, something tangible to hold onto.

Beca tries to smirk in her usual relaxed way, but it must not look right with her face already swelling. Chloe just looks more afraid. "Hey," Beca swallows. "… you."

"And you." Chloe's voice is so quiet, barely a whisper. "… how long?"

"I don't know," which is the truth. "I fell asleep."

" _Don't_." The fear in Chloe's voice is so _raw_ (so exposed) that it surprises them both. She blinks her wide eyes, regroups, and starts again. "They don't like it… when you sleep."

It's the first time she's spoken about that time. The three weeks.

_Three weeks of this_. 

Just the thought fills Beca with such a sudden, fluttering terror that she could choke.

She might suffocate on her own blood after all.

But what she says is, "It hasn't been long. A couple hours." 

And what she thinks is, _just twenty days to go._

*

"Did I do that?"

Chloe is speaking to Beca from across the room, crouched close to the wall, but careful to keep to Beca's line of sight. She must know all too well the fear of the unseen -- the person creeping just at your shoulder. 

Of course she does. Of _course_ she keeps her back to the wall and face to the door.

Even without the chains Beca wears, Chloe looks trapped.

She nods at the bruises trailed across Beca's face, asking again, "Did I _do_ that?"

Reluctantly, almost imperceptibly, Beca nods.

"… what else?"

Beca's swollen mouth thins out and she eyes the blood stains in the dirt instead of keeping Chloe's gaze.

" _Beca_." 

The urgency in Chloe's voice is so close to desperation -- so unlike anything she's heard from her before -- that it forces Beca to look. 

Her blue eyes are wet with tears that Chloe tries her best to blink back, grimacing. "What _else_ , Beca?"

"… I'm fine."

Only one tear falls, dropping fast when Chloe's jaw tenses. "You're such a shit liar."

" _Really._ " Beca raises both bruised and swelling eyebrows. "I'm fine."

*

"How are your hands?"

Time has passed, and the stranger wearing Chloe's face has returned. She smiles, no trace of tears in her eyes.

It makes Beca's skin crawl. "… fine."

"I don't _believe_ you," Chloe sing songs. Abruptly, she takes hold of the damaged right hand, _squeezing_.

Beca's jolting scream is even louder than Chloe's laugh.

"See?" Chloe wipes the blood from her hands on a clean spot on Beca's cheek, maybe the only one left. Or it was. "I was right." She works her fingers over the knuckles, tweaking and teasing. A smile flickers onto her face every time that Beca twitches or whimpers, but then it's gone.

She's unsatisfied suddenly, and that might be even more frightening than her smile. 

"You're filthy," Chloe murmurs, frowning at her own assessment, and she is _close_ now. 

So close Beca can smell her, and she does smell _so clean_. Not like blood or the stink of fear and sweat that must be what's making Chloe wrinkle her nose now, slowly. 

"… didn't your mother teach you to wash your hands?"

It's such a strange question, that Beca's almost provoked into answering.

Until she realizes the question wasn't really the point. It's what comes after.

First Chloe _kisses_ the back of her hand, and it's far enough away from the broken fingers that it stings only in an abstract way. Like a memory of pain. 

Or a warm up.

Because now Chloe's tongue is licking over her knuckles, leaving streaks through smudges of blood, and when Chloe licks her lips her smile is just that little bit redder.

"… Chloe."

"Shhh," she whispers directly against skin, mouthing over a knuckle, but her eyes stay locked with Beca's as she slips one digit into her mouth and simply… sucks.

Beca should have known, she should have anticipated, but nothing would have _prepared_ her for the feeling like wanting to crawl out of her own fucking skin. The chains hold her tight and there's nowhere to _go_ , but the pain isn't just one finger or only her hand now, it's searing all the way up her arm, shooting off signals all through her brain, burning in her throat as she screams.

And boy, does she scream.

* * *

They don't just fight. The point isn't really to learn hand-to-hand combat, which Beca Stark (of all people) has no real need for.

The point is learning to be hit. Learning to suffer, and knowing you'll come out the other side still intact. Natasha never _says_ this outright, but Beca gathers as much from the other things that she does say.

Some of it's almost more frightening than when she lunges at her in the ring, actually.

They have calm, quiet conversations about pain. The function of it. How it works itself through the human body. Beca sits in a chair opposite Natasha in the guest bedroom and jogs her leg up and down while trying to avoid direct eye contact.

"Pain," Natasha says; "is just like anything else. It can be overcome."

Beca snorts, but doesn't comment.

(But she's thinking how Natasha is twice -- no, _three times_ \-- her muscle mass and has been doing this since she was in the single digits, so maybe her perspective is slightly skewed.) 

"You let it in, you process it, then let go." When Natasha shifts in her chair, Beca's left with the distinct impression of a jungle cat ready to pounce. "You control your body; it doesn't control you."

This time, Beca laughs outright.

"Something funny?"

"Yeah." She smirks. "I'm fourteen?" No response, not even recognition, so fine. Beca elaborates. "Well, so I _don't_ feel in control--" She indicates herself with a wide, sweeping gesture; "-- of _any_ of this."

Beca might be wrong, but she _almost_ thinks that Natasha smirks too. Just barely. 

"So, control. Let's start with that."

* * *

She wakes up. Was she asleep?

The room is dark except for the light of faint white sparks jumping. Chloe giggles every time.

"You know, I can think of a few other ways to make sparks," Beca drawls, but her grin is swollen and lopsided -- like the entire left side of her face -- and it doesn't hang there for long.

Chloe looks up and smiles. "Yeah, you know I'd buy that confidence thing if you didn't sound close to tears." The smile is maybe more frightening than the cattle prod. "Flirtation only works if you're not already _desperate_ , Beca."

But you know what, only maybe. The cattle prod is actually still pretty scary.

"Oh."

She tosses it from one gloved hand to the other -- the gloves are black and shiny with sweat, still wet with Beca's blood -- and still she smiles, "Maybe you should ask your dad about it later. He's had a lot of practice fucking cute strangers, I'm sure he'd help you out." Chloe nudges Beca's legs apart, and standing this close Beca thinks she can _smell_ the electricity burning. "… well, shit. You're not going to see him anymore, though, are you?" 

Beca swallows and examines the welts on her own wrist. Purple bruising. An hour ago it was a different shade of blue. 

(Maybe it was an hour. This is the closest she has to a watch.)

"Don't worry," Chloe whispers, fiberglass dancing half an inch away from Beca's skin. "I'll tell him you said hello."

* * *

"Don't tense beforehand," Natasha says, and today they're talking about _electricity_.

Like deliberately running several volts through your body electrification, and Beca can't help that she laughs.

Honestly, she laughs a _lot_ at these lessons, because it all seems slightly absurd.

"Care to share the joke?"

Beca's perched at the edge of the boxing ring, legs dangling over the side with her arms looped around the rope. "I'm pretty sure, with the amount of shit I've got inside me, if they take enough volts to me, I'm done. No deep breathing method's really going to help." Not exactly true, but close enough.

The metal inside of Beca has a different conductivity than the rest of her body.

Technically, she might not die. 

But she'd probably wish she did.

* * *

Chloe presses the cattle prod to Beca's skin right at the juncture of her ribs, and it _feels_ like four shocks instead of one. Everything moving at its own rate, mili-seconds apart, tensing each in their own separate time, and fuck it's like being torn apart. Ribs, joints, muscle, and heart.

"Keep screaming," Chloe whispers, panting once with her mouth so close to Beca's forehead that she can feel it, warm air flowing over her flushed, heated skin. "That's good, it's good." 

Chloe presses the voltage directly to skin again, and _holds_.

She's saying something, but Beca doesn't hear. 

All of the parts of her she had tried to improve -- to make herself better, stronger, just a little less small and afraid -- are turning against her, trying to rip themselves free from the cage of Beca Stark's small frame. 

All the things she did to herself turned inside out.

Her heart is pounding hard in her chest, jerking into an unnatural rhythm, like it can't find its feet again, not at first, and Beca's ribs feel like they _want_ to let it out. Chloe need only push firmly enough and the rest of Beca's insides will split open, exposing all of her heart.

The _whole_ heart -- red, raw, trembling fast -- not just the core that glows on the surface, shining a strange blue-white light across the fiberglass of the cattle prod when it passes close. 

"No," Beca pants, and she's found her voice. 

In her desperation, she remembers one word other than _pain_. 

"No," she remembers, and also, " _Please_."

"Remember to scream," Chloe says, kissing her once upon the forehead. "It means you're still breathing."

Chloe rests the cattle prod directly against the metal plating around Beca's heart.

Four, eight, twelve, twenty, eternity.

*

Beca did this to herself to get stronger (to be better), and Chloe knows every single stitch and seam.

She knows where the metal is fused to bone or where plating melds in a synthesized form of plastic, and now she traces a path over every improvement turned into imperfection, turning Beca's body against itself.

Beca did this to herself and Chloe _knows_.

*

Natasha taught them: _stay alive_. Your job is to stay alive until rescue comes.

Four hundred and sixty four hours to go.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay, confession time.
> 
> This _might_ end up being more than four chapters.

*

        This is a gift; it comes with a price.  
        Who is the lamb, and who is the knife? - Florence and the Machine, _Rabbit Heart (Raise It Up)_

*

The worry, of course, is time. Over the next two weeks (if she holds out that long), the bones in Beca's hand will begin to mend on their own. Without being properly set first, they'll grow back damaged and wrong, in need of re-breaking.

Though she's sure that Chloe would be more than willing to help with that much.

*

Chloe is looking at her with the same expression she's seen on Natasha's face so many times before when describing methods of interrogation. The one that says Beca's no more than a fragile meat sack with pressure points and easily exposed nerve endings.

It's the look Beca wears when pulling wires loose from broken tech. Analytical, curious, but utterly emotionless.

 _And maybe I am_ , a voice at the back of Beca's mind hisses softly, almost seductively. _Just broken tech._ It feels like surrender, but also so right.

Except that Natasha tried to teach her about this. How the mind is the first thing to go. The body is stronger than we imagine, but the mind must be trained in resistance.

The absurdity of it makes Beca laugh.

"What?" Chloe says, feigning her affection, curling fingers through Beca's hair, but that only makes her laugh harder. 

And then Chloe grows bored again and _pulls_. " _What?_ "

"Mental toughness," Beca gasps between the laughs. 

Chloe just blinks.

" _You_ know. I _know_ that you know." Because the look on Chloe's face is still Natasha, who disapproves very much of the direction this conversation is taking. 

Beca's fucking everything up again, and she can only laugh harder. "Your mom told us both, right? To be tough, but--" She snickers. "That's the _joke_ , because we know that I'm not." She licks her lips, and looks up at Chloe's face. " _You_ know I'm not. This is a fucking game we're playing, Chlo."

The expression barely changes, though there's just the slightest hints of a smirk. That at least looks more at home on this Chloe's face than the smile has. "Your point?"

"… when do we stop?"

Chloe slips a finger across the palm of Beca's damaged hand. "When I get bored," she whispers, twining their fingers together and _pulling_ her into a tight embrace, hands clenched. "Not before."

If she could, Beca would stifle the scream. She doesn't _want_ to give Chloe the satisfaction -- though judging by the look on her face, way too fucking late -- but she can't help it. She _is_ that weak.

She screams.

"Beca, baby," Chloe coos, pushing sweaty hair back from Beca's forehead. "I thought you _wanted_ to hold my hand." She pulses her grip, and the nerves are on fucking fire. "Or was that only with my brother?"

She moves suddenly, pulling the hand with her, and it's a new sharp pain of mangled fingers and restraints pinching at Beca's wrist. She hisses, until Chloe tugs _again_ , and Beca gives her what she wants. She screams.

"Was I…" And at least Chloe sounds _pleased_ , she's almost smiling into the side of Beca's throat, kissing slowly. "Only a fantasy? Did you only want to _fuck_ me, Beca?"

*

Her father never broke. He escaped.

With Chloe, it took three weeks.

Beca Stark feels herself pulling apart -- grown thin and transparent -- after only three days.

*

Chloe rests in her lap, not fully awake but not quite sleeping either. What ought to be a an uncomfortable position is really almost pleasant.

As pleasant as anything is likely to be for a while. (For what's left of forever? However little that is.)

Chloe is _warm_ and her heart beats across from Beca's. When she shifts, pressing closer into Beca's shoulder -- the one without the cuts, only a light bruising -- the heartbeats press _right_ against flesh.

It's like a promise. 

Chloe's still here. She's still inside there. (Somewhere.)

"I'm sorry," someone whispers, and Beca's honestly not certain which one of them got to it first.

*

No more sitting after that.

Beca's hoisted from the ceiling, just taut enough to put a constant strain at the back of her calves.

"You were getting a little out of shape just sitting around all day, anyway," Chloe laughs. 

One light shove sends Beca swaying with a pained moan -- both shoulders are bleeding now -- and scrambling to regain her footing.

"A little _too_ comfortable, I think." This time she shoves with one hand placed directly atop the reactor. "Taking far too much for granted."

*

Beca flexes her hand (as best she can) and tries not to think of phrases like _permanent nerve damage_ and _loss of range of movement_.

She thinks of anything other than the precision movements required for the repair of electronics -- even the most basic of engineering work.

Or of all the bones in her left hand still available for breaking.

* * *

Most of the tech inside of Beca isn't accessible without invasive surgery.

This makes careful inspection before installation especially important. Before any new upgrade, she spends about a day and a half in the lab, going over the specs but also examining the equipment.

A lot of it's alone time, but every once in a while someone else will drop by. 

Beca can't pretend to hate the company. 

"Where's that going?" Chloe asks, sitting close enough to Beca's side that she can lean over her shoulder for inspection.

Beca's hands keep moving (always moving), even as she glances over to answer the question. "Hip." 

She smiles, and so does Chloe.

The tech is small -- like, _really_ small -- but she doesn't need to be able to see inside it to maneuver around. Beca's hands find the way on their own, fingertips with near perfect vision. 

Hell of a lot more accuracy than her eyes had before _their_ improvement.

"What's wrong with the hips you've got now?"

"Nothing _wrong_ \--"

"I like your hips." Chloe shrugs, and Beca can feel it against her shoulder. "They seem okay to me."

Fingers making careful, precise adjustments. Critical realignment. 

But her eyes are on Chloe's face, occupied with giving her a slightly skeptical (smirking) look. "Yeah, well you're easy to please."

And Chloe's smile really _does_ look pretty pleased, even as she laughs, shaking her head. "Or maybe you're just good at pleasing."

Beca doesn't know how to answer that, so she just laughs and looks down at the mechanism in her hands. 

"Okay," she says, and doesn't look back.

*

They pass the time and Chloe passes along tools when needed.

It's nice.

So nice that Beca can almost forget the purpose here -- upgrading, improving, and becoming less afraid -- because in this one (brief) moment, there doesn't really seem to be a lot to be afraid of.

*

Hip implants go in without a hitch.

Beca could almost laugh at her own improved range of movement -- especially with the slightly baffled look on Jesse's face as she dances around him in the ring -- but the benefit is even more than that.

Natasha worked long and hard to teach Beca the value of control. But she never really said how you come to grips with the loss of it.

So this is that. Reclaiming her own space and sense of self. 

This is Beca Stark taking back control of her own body -- both its construction and presentation -- one inch at a time.

* * *

It happens over and over.

Beca starts to doze, slip into darkness, and then she hears it. 

The click of an arming mechanism. 

The _specific_ sound of a _particular_ Stark weapon about to blow.

It jerks her back into the alert. Her entire body is tensing, fucking aching, and blood fills Beca's mouth as she bites her tongue to keep from screaming. 

But there is no explosion. This is just another game of Chloe's, even when she's not in the room. 

Because everything is a fucking game now.

*

But one time, it's different.

There's the click, and Beca's heart thumps hard in her chest. She strains against the restraints, swaying from the ceiling. She's awake, the game is done -- and Chloe's won, which is like rule number one -- so she relaxes again, slumping in the chains.

And then the bomb goes off, shaking the room, filling the air with its roar.

It clenches inside her chest, somewhere deep and primal (and _very_ small and afraid), and when Chloe screams that _horrible_ scream that sounds like she's been ripped apart, Beca starts screaming too. 

She can see it all _so fucking clear_. The dirt and blood, and the broken bodies underfoot, all of them with Chloe's face.

So Beca screams, then starts to cry, and as the sound strikes against the rocks it mixes with the quiet notes of Chloe's sudden laughter.

"I told you not to fall asleep, didn't I?" Chloe cups Beca's face in her hands (gently), and kisses across the trails of her tears. "You never _listen_ , Beca."

When Chloe releases her, the weight drops back down fully on Beca's wrists and she has to hiss to keep from screaming. 

Something tells her that Chloe doesn't want her to now. She's playing at being nice.

This is a different game.

"You're too easy," Chloe scolds, talking softly. "Didn't mom talk to you about this too?" She licks her lips just once and then licks Beca's cheek as well, almost like experimenting. To see which is more fun. "She must have. And you're _really_ fucking it up, Beca." 

"Sorry…" 

"I know. That's the problem." Chloe loops one arm around Beca's shoulder and _leans_ and oh fuck, it's not that she weighs a lot really but that added weight is _just enough_ to pin every nerve in Beca's wrist directly against the restraints and just _press_. 

She gurgles against the sounds pressing up against the back of her teeth and closes her eyes, tries to picture a happy place or whatever the fuck it was Natasha said. She imagines flying up out of here, and tries to really _picture_ it. She --

" _Beca_ ," Chloe says sharply, scolding, and she actually _tugs_ on the broken hand to help make her point. "I was talking, don't be rude."

It works. It works really fucking well, like jesus christ is she her mother's daughter. 

"Sorry," she whimpers again, choking on bile and spitting it into the sand.

"Gross." Chloe makes a face, but mostly looks amused. "Uh, where was I? _Oh_ , right. You need to stop _giving me_ everything, it's not a lot of fun. So I thought maybe we could take a break together." 

"My Chloe," Beca starts, and fuck if Chloe isn't right because the _desperation_ in her voice is so obvious. There's no pretense anymore; everything about Beca has been stripped bare. 

"No, she's no fun. And besides, _she_ isn't going to fuck you." Chloe leans against Beca's side, the heavy weight of her dragging them both closer to the ground, almost snapping the bones in Beca's wrists as well just to go along with the searing pain in her tendons. 

But there's something in the way she breathes against Beca's throat as she whispers that makes a part of Beca _ache_. 

"But _I_ could fuck you." 

The bile is back, but she chokes it down. 

"You're not a virgin, are you babe?" Chloe giggles and nuzzles at Beca's cheek, almost affectionate. "You _really_ don't want to die a virgin. Trust me, I'm _incredible_ in the sack." She pulls away, just far enough to inspect Beca's face -- and to relieve enough of the weight that Beca actually gasps -- and then Chloe smiles. "I can talk like her, you know. The way I would have talked to you before my eyes were opened."

She places a kiss so close to Beca's mouth that she would only have to turn her head to --

"I can tell you all the things you want to hear." 

"Please…"

"Oh, _god_." 

Suddenly Chloe isn't even _waiting_ for Beca to make the first move. She's kissing her -- kissing her _hard_ and deep, thrusting slowly -- and her hands are holding Beca up, lifting her into the kiss. Somehow one of them has slipped beneath her shirt, warm against Beca's spine. When she breaks away, she's smiling, even as she lingers close to whisper, "You have _no idea_ what a turn on that is." Breathless, blue eyes sparkling, she _almost_ sounds like the real Chloe.

Almost but isn't, and the wickedness rushes into her eyes again when she resumes the kiss while taking a step back (then another) until the restraints begin to pull and Beca's moaning into her mouth.

*

"Now, I know mom told you all about… assault."

Chloe's words are like her hands, moving slow -- creeping over Beca's abdomen, down around her hips and thighs. 

"I know because she told me too. How to think of it like anything else." When she presses into Beca's back, she does that _slowly_ too, breathing in and out so that they both feel the soft rise and fall of her chest.

Beca is only dimly aware that the quiet whimpering sound must be coming from her own throat. 

"But I doubt she said anything about the sex you _want_ to have, so I can understand if this is a little… overwhelming." Her mouth is sucking on Beca's pulse point, so that they can _both_ feel the way it's making her heart beat faster. "But I'm going to need you to ask for it." Just like that, the contact's gone and the empty space Chloe's body occupied is replaced by the stinging numbness in Beca's wrists once she lets go. 

But Beca only grunts, because that specific pain is almost normal now. The default state of being. "What?" 

Kind of like confusion.

"I said: I want you to _beg_ me to fuck you." Chloe speaks slowly, as if explaining difficult concepts to a very small child. "And if I like what I hear, I'll even ask our friends in the next room to turn off the monitors and give us a little privacy."

*

When she refuses, Chloe makes her beg to be hurt instead.

Beca gets to choose, at least. In this one thing, she is given a choice. 

"Hey," she says with the weapons all rolled out before her. "Just like Clue."

Chloe slaps her.

*

Beca picks the knife over the club.

Thin lines cut across her arms and down her back. The whole room stinks of blood, like copper wire.

But internal damage is harder to keep an eye on. That's another thing Natasha taught her.

*

In the dreams they force her to her knees, and place a gun at the base of her skull.

But Beca can't recall the last time she slept. She can't tell the difference between awake or under.

(Sometimes, when they pull the trigger, she gets one brief glimpse of brain matter rushing toward sand before her eyes short out and her scream dies in her throat.)

*

It's strange to find kneeling such a relief, because at least the ache in Beca's back and shoulders has decreased.

In fact, she can hardly feel a thing there. 

It would probably be enough to cause her concern if there weren't more immediately pressing problems.

Namely, the knife lying in the dirt. 

"Pick it up," Chloe says, sharply, but Beca's laugh is high, manic, and just as sharp.

"With _what_?" 

She looks directly at her mangled right hand -- the one that won't flex or open completely -- and very deliberately avoids so much as a glance at the left. 

(Which isn't responding properly either, fingers only curling halfway, but if she doesn't _see_ then she doesn't have to really _know_ what's become of her dominant hand.)

Chloe's foot lifts from the dirt -- Beca can see it in her periphery -- and for a moment she braces herself for an impact that never comes. Instead the boot fits itself _exactly_ into the space between shoulder and throat (heel digging in against an open wound), and all Chloe needs to do after that is _lean_. 

Beca's throat tilts back, exposed (vulnerable), and she gurgles as Chloe hisses, still drawing closer, "Don't argue. Just obey."

Just as quickly, the pressure against Beca's throat is gone -- and she's gasping, choking, ashamed with how easily her body surrenders now ( _obeys_ ) without Beca's own permission -- and her left hand scrambles across the dirt. She finds the handle and --

She _tries_.

Her fingers flex and every worn nerve in her wrist feels like it's on fire. 

She remembers the weight of Chloe pressed into her shoulders again, dragging her down. Pulling her apart.

Beca bites the inside of her cheek to fight off a scream, whimpering instead as she holds the knife up for inspection (loose and clumsy in her grip).

She imagines sliding the blade into her captor's thigh -- at eye level, exposed and vulnerable -- but Chloe has already taken a well-timed step back, and --

It's Chloe. She _can't_.

* * *

In the early days of their sparring matches together, Beca spends most of her time circling Chloe instead of throwing punches.

She's not actually any faster -- slower, really, because of lack of training and the difference in height -- so she takes quite a few hits in the process, but at the end of the day Beca simply lacks the Barton family instinct for bruising or drawing blood.

"You need to stop," Chloe says one day when her mother's out of the room.

Beca frowns. "Stop--"

"You need to _hit_ me." Chloe gulps her water, frowning too. "Mom's noticed."

"Oh," is all Beca can think to say, because she's unsure of _just_ how severe this might be. Or how annoyed Natasha is likely to feel.

But judging by the bruises along Beca's torso, filling into a pattern of ever darkening purple, Chloe received a similar talking to herself. Her hits have become much harder the past week.

" _Oh._ "

Chloe is looking at her with a quietly severe, appraising look that's almost half sympathy. Like she's thinking how Beca isn't really cut out for this (any of it), and probably never will be.

It's enough to make Beca want to blush. "I don't want to hit _you_. That's not weird. You're my friend."

"The next time people come for me, they won't go easy," Chloe says sharply. "So as my _friend_ \--" 

Their eyes meet, and in that moment Beca's not sure if there's something almost accusatory in Chloe's expression. Half-sarcasm. 

"I hope you'll give me a real challenge."

* * *

"I want you to cut me," Chloe is saying, removing the top layer of her uniform and exposing a thin tank top below.

(And scars. There are traces of scars across her torso that haven't fully healed. Will never heal.) 

"Deeply. Painfully." She turns to face Beca with a smile etched ( _deep_ ) across her features. "No, sorry. To be clear: I want you to cut _her_."

"Who--"

"The _other_ me."

She steps closer, and now she is within reach of the knife. Beca only needs to _try_.

But her throat has gone dry and her hand is still numb. 

"No," she whispers, cold fear creeping up her spine at whatever Chloe might do next.

"I told you to obey, didn't I?"

"I won't."

Another step, and now she's crouching. Eye level. "Why didn't you pick up the _knife_ , Beca?"

"My hand--"

"So you won't miss it too much if I take it?"

" _\--take_ \--"

"Your hand, yes."

Beca doesn't breathe. She stills completely. 

As if breathing might be confirmation enough. As if any movement -- blinking, fucking _thinking_ \-- could be enough to lose her hand. 

(Her _hand_ with which she builds, explores, and navigates the mathematics and science that comprise her _entire universe_ , her fucking _hand_.)

Chloe's smile is slow (almost gentle), and so is her hand in Beca's hair. 

(She doesn't flinch away from the touch. Too afraid.) 

"Pick up the knife and _cut_ , or I'll take your fucking hand."

Beca's throat _aches_ and there are tears rising up into her eyes, but she doesn't even trust those to fall without causing -- something. 

A provocation. A nightmare. 

" _Please_."

"Mmm, very sweet." Chloe's fingertips trace across Beca's mouth, as if trying to catch the breath that's just left. As if even _that_ could (does) belong to her. "But I'm afraid begging isn't enough right now. It's a choice. _Your_ choice."

*

(She's already on her knees; all they need now is a gun.

And then this could be _over_.)

*

Chloe comes back.

Real Chloe. She has the fear in her eyes, but also something more now. There's a look to her as if she's been hollowed out.

(How is it _possible_ for her to seem thinner than her other self?)

"Beca," she starts to say, and she's reaching -- as if to _comfort_ \--- as if somehow this isn't all -- from the very beginning, from that very first moment of hesitation upon making eye contact -- Beca's fault -- 

And all Beca can do is shake her head and cry. 

"I've been trying." She hiccups over the rising feeling in her chest, the rush of bile and sadness (pathetic _desperation_ ) and she's shaking her head, over and over. "I can't use my hand."

Not with precision. Not carefully enough to cut and _know_ she won't do damage. (Lasting, permanent, irreversible damage.) She can't take that risk. Not with --

Her eyes lift to lock with Chloe's, and the fear there is frozen. 

Ice blue and frozen. 

"Beca."

"I can't use my hand," she repeats, wet tears in her voice and dripping down her cheeks into her mouth. "She's gonna _take_ \--"

Chloe's arms are strong wrapping around her, and that's good. It's _needed_.

Because Beca's never felt so weak.

*

( _No more pain, no more pain, no more pain._

Just one bullet, no more brain.

It'd be so easy. Why can't anything just be _fucking easy_.

Poetic. Almost perfect.)

*

"Look," Chloe is saying, voice so close it's not just in Beca's ear. She's whispering from inside her own head.

(Beca closes her eyes and Chloe's voice is _everything_. It's the wet red landscape of pain behind her eyelids.)

"I can help you, okay?"

Her voice so close and her mouth on Beca's skin, pressed to the spot just beneath her ear, breathing out and in. 

"Help," Beca says, and she can feel Chloe nodding at her back.

Feels her fingers on Beca's damaged wrist -- the left hand only, keeping far away from the right -- and for a moment Chloe simply touches, gently inspecting. "Did she say _where_ to cut?"

"No, just--"

Strong, precise fingers guide Beca's own up along the handle of the blade. She feels herself swallow and thinks of throats being slit.

( _Brain matter on the sand_.)

"-- just deep."

*

Pressed to her back -- soft curves, firm and steady hands -- Chloe guides Beca's knife.

She breathes out into Beca's hair and whispers quiet things, saying, _"Steady now,"_ and _"I've got you."_

When the blood rushes up to flow across their joined hands (spilling in the dirt), Beca's tears only flow harder, but she tries to breathe steady.

She feels lost and afraid, small like a little child, but Chloe kisses her throat and whispers -- through the pain, through the hitching in her voice that can only mean _pain_ \--

"I'm fine, okay?" Her mouth against Beca's ear and filling every red space inside her skull. "Beca, I'm _fine_."

As if saying it enough will make it true.

*

"Do you want to know how we broke her?" Chloe's voice so close, the familiar feel of her mouth on Beca's ear. "All you really need is to _penetrate_ the psyche." She breathes out, and it drags into a low, guttural moan. "Deep. Forceful." She chuckles, and Beca's stomach tightens. "Repeated penetration."

All Beca can think is that when the Avengers come -- and she is sure that they will come, although it will probably be too late -- she hopes the killing will be _slow_ and painful. She hopes these men will scream for days. Weeks. A lifetime.

"Don't you wonder how I look when I'm coming apart?" 

The ache in Beca's shoulders has largely faded into nothing more than a dull annoyance. A phantom pain. But when Chloe mouths against her neck, laving a tongue across skin, the sensation is strange, as if from a great distance. The feeling hasn't fully returned. 

Maybe she'll never feel again.

Except for Chloe's whisper, red inside her skull. "I can show you…"

That she feels. A deep, persistent _ache_.

* * *

Beca draws blood, but Chloe smiles.

From her place on the mat -- on her knees, panting with laughter -- she shoots Beca a more generous look of appraisal than the norm.

"Not bad," she says, spitting out blood.

"You said--"

"Take the compliment, Beca."

"... right."

Chloe ruffles her hair gently, drawing their heads closer together, and leaves a kiss on Beca's forehead.

* * *

"What do they want to know?" Chloe asks, crouched low but keeping her distance.

They both have fresh wounds. Both are bleeding.

"Codes," Beca mutters, feeling weak. Exhausted and defeated. "Dad's access codes." She shoots Chloe a look meant to convey --

Well, everything.

The kind of codes Tony Stark has access to -- that _Beca_ therefore has access to through a chronic habit of breaking into her dad's shit -- are the kind of things that can't get out. 

World ending things. 

_They'll have to kill me first_ kind of things.

"Oh," Chloe says, and Beca nods, feeling just that little bit smaller.

Closer to the inevitable edge.

*

"Chloe," she says, and she's not sure when Chloe moved closer, but her hand is on Beca's face.

And her eyes aren't angry. They aren't frightened or frightening, but simply _sad_. 

Maybe waiting? For something. 

"Mm," she says, questioningly, and her fingers move gently through Beca's hair.

"Chloe, would you--" 

Because this is the end. Beca doesn't know as much as she should about time and relativity, it's not one of her areas, but this seems pretty clear to her now. They're reaching the inevitable conclusion to the story of Rebecca Stark.

And endings aren't supposed to be like this. Cold and damaged. So utterly imperfect.

Ending's are --

She's not sure. But not _this_.

"Beca," Chloe says, so obviously wanting to sound brave and strong. Wanting to be her mother, who can silence a room with a word, but neither of them are their parents (or pretenses) anymore.

Just Chloe and Beca, alone in a room. Waiting to die. 

"Will you _kiss_ me?" 

Beca tries again. What is there to lose?

(Everything.)

But the world's already humming, pounding against her skull. Speeding up toward a crash. 

What is there to lose?

"You don't mean that," Chloe says, but she makes it sound almost like a question.

"She kissed me. _She_ \--" And the way Chloe looks away, so flushed and ashamed, makes the words die in Beca's throat. 

As if Chloe thinks that she's to blame for the things done to her own brain. (What was pulled out and what they put back in its place.) 

"I just… want you to," Beca finishes lamely, feeling like it's not nearly enough. 

There are no words for the rest of it. The other things that she can't fix.

There are some things you can't take back, but what's it matter? There isn't time for it now.

The world is pounding, and Beca just wishes that her death could be a little less imperfect than life ever got to be.

*

Chloe's eyes are still on Beca when the pounding turns to screaming. When the door bursts open, and the room is filled with shouts of the dying and the smell of their blood.

Their eyes are still on one another as they're lifted up and pulled apart. 

Chloe doesn't blink, and Beca can't breathe. 

Men are screaming, dying coughing on the ground, and Beca is dimly aware (as if from a great distance) that their deaths are happening much too quickly. Too easy.

Not enough pain.

Chloe looks so afraid -- terrified, small, and still bleeding -- when the restraints are slapped onto her wrist, and suddenly Beca's found her voice again. She's pulled back into the present and her own weak (malfunctioning) body.

" _No_ ," she says, half a snarl. And also, "Fuck _off_." 

"Beca," another voice is saying (urgent, insistent) and it's her father with his hand in her hair and the fear in his eyes. "Beca, _calm down_ , it's okay."

Not true. Lacks supporting evidence.

It doesn't _feel_ okay. 

(Nothing will ever feel okay again maybe, but at least the feeling might return to all of her limbs. There's that. Think of _that_.)

But still she tries to struggle, even as her legs give out beneath her and she slumps in someone -- Steve's? -- arms, breathing so hard her whole body shakes. " _Chloe_ ," she says, and it's the last thing she can manage. 

Beca's mind has long since given up and now her body's fully ready to join it. 

Clint is saying, "It's okay. You're _both_ okay," but is it only in Beca's head or does he sound as uncertain of everything as she _feels?_

*

(There still isn't any feeling in the upper quadrant of her right shoulder, where Chloe took a knife to the skin surrounding Beca's tattoo.

The painted on image of flayed and damaged flesh, now wet with blood.

"More authentic," Chloe had cooed before digging the blade in (deep).

Beca's screams were louder than her voice had any right to be on day -- 

What day _was_ it?)

*

Five and a half days.

She hears them whispering -- arguing, shouting -- as they strap her body to a stretcher and carry it to the plane.

"Chloe," Beca tries pleading again, but no one can hear her over the roar of the rest of the world. The plane engines start up, and the rocks of the mountain themselves almost seem to be screaming.

Their screams echo in nearly the same way that Beca's had.

No one else seems to be listening to them either.


	4. Chapter 4

        When you are Real, you don't mind being hurt. - Margery Williams, _The Velveteen Rabbit_

        He was part of my dream, of course --  
        but then I was part of his dream, too. \- Lewis Carroll, _Through the Looking-Glass_

*

Beca wakes up with IVs in her arm and bandages _everywhere_. Wrapped in a soft, highly medicated coccoon, it takes her a few moments to remember. She's safe now. She was rescued.

This is her happy ending.

*

The medication doesn't fix anything. Beca's just gone numb.

She can't feel the tips of her fingers -- tries not to panic -- and pulls the tubes from her arms without bothering to be gentle. (It's made all the worse with clumsy hands.) Some of the bandages tear loose as soon as she begins to move, but she doesn't care.

She can't feel it anyway.

"Chloe," she mumbles, eyes slowly adjusting to the fluorescent light. (Too bright after five days in darkness. _Much_ too bright.) 

"… Chloe?"

But the room is empty, and so is the hallway immediately outside.

Not really a hallway at all. Corridor.

Because everything is _swaying_ , thrumming beneath her feet in a way that suggests that they're still airborne. This must be her rescue plane.

*

Beca keeps muttering ( _"Chloe"_ ) like a quiet prayer. A reminder to keep moving, one foot after another. She braces her hand against the wall when they hit an air pocket and the whole world spins in front of her eyes.

She closes them and tries to regain focus.

_Chloe_.

* * *

(Chloe runs her fingers across Beca's skin, inspecting and tapping at the veins, and then carefully aligns the knife with the point just grazing over flesh. "Step forward," she says.

"Chloe," Beca swallows. 

" _Do_ it."

And she does.)

* * *

One foot after another.

Beca hears voices in the hallway, echoing from a distance.

"Your _kid_ tried to kill mine," her father's voice is saying -- loud and angry -- which means he doesn't _understand_.

Because Chloe saved Beca. She was her happy fucking place, the thing that kept her from changing the angle of the knife just _so_ and getting it all over with, and she _wants_ to find that voice -- to track him down to argue.

But she wants to see Chloe even more than that.

The humming of the airplane engines is like the twisting in her chest, low and steady, making her feel weak, fingertips slip-sliding down the wall. Fuck, she's dizzy, and it might be the drugs or maybe the fear. 

Fear that washes over her every time she thinks of Chloe's face as they were pulled apart. 

She takes a step and then another. One foot after the other.

* * *

(Two knives this time. One in Beca's hand and the other pressed to Chloe's skin.

"Please," Beca starts, but Chloe doesn't want to hear it. Begging no longer required.

Chloe shakes her head (violently) and blood pearls up at the edge of the blade she's pressed to her own throat. "Now."

Beca finds the scabs already healing on her torso and -- with a hissing breath in -- drags the knife over skin.

"Good girl," Chloe says, lowering the knife and leaving a kiss on Beca's forehead -- like she has a thousand times before, but that wasn't _her_ , not this Chloe -- and then: "Again.")

* * *

She waits for her father's voice to retreat completely before heading in precisely the opposite direction. There she finds Natasha and a locked door.

It's only logical to assume that Chloe's behind it.

"Let me in," Beca grunts, one hand clutching at her side like that's enough to keep things from falling apart. (As if that hasn't already happened.)

But Natasha's apparently on high alert now. The line of her shoulders has gone stiff, eyes lit up. For her, that qualifies as a drastic response. "Beca…" 

"Yeah. For now." She tries to smirk, but it just _hurts_.

Okay, forget smiling.

Nothing to be happy about anyway.

With the hand that isn't braced against a wall (holding her up), Beca points to the door. "And Chloe."

Natasha takes one careful side-step into the space between her and the door. "Beca, we _have_ Chloe--" Beca steps and Natasha tenses. "-- and she's safe. But she's … not really herself right now."

As if somehow Beca doesn't _know_.

As if she hasn't spent the past five days alone in a cave with her. 

"Yeah," she grunts. "I'm aware."

Beca really regrets the hours spent screaming. It might have compelled Chloe to mercy at the time -- briefly, like any fleeting impulse -- but it's not worth it when she's so raw now. She should have accepted the pain.

Because she is _angry_ (so very angry) and she wants it to be obvious in her voice -- in every part of her-- but it just comes out a muted monotone, scraped over and sore.

" _You_ thought she was safe before." Beca takes a step forward, but sways -- sees Natasha tense (slightly) then relax when she doesn't fall. "But you were _wrong_." 

She takes another step, faster now as her anger grows.

Because she is _so_ fucking angry and so _fucking_ tired. Tired of being helpless and at the mercy of _everyone_ else. "They hurt her _too_ , you know."

Beca pushes away from the wall and wills her legs not to give out.

And they don't. 

For now at least, she can stand unaided with fresh blood running down her face from a newly opened wound, which probably doesn't help her case when she says, "You're going to let me in now."

If any of this hurts, it doesn't show in Natasha's face. 

Which just means that Beca's going to have to push a little harder. 

Because she _wants_ her to hurt. She wants all of them to hurt.

More than ever before, Beca Stark wants to be a source of pain in others. She is _tired_ of it always being her. Why can't someone else cry for a while?

Why can't they at least give her that?

"You're right," Natasha says, so quiet, calm, and contained that it makes Beca want to scream. (Because she's not right, nothing's right, and it won't ever be again, so why fucking _lie_ about it.) "It is my fault, which means it's _my_ responsibility to fix it. Not yours. You need to rest."

Beca is too tired to fight -- or to argue or cry -- but she takes another step forward. And another.

And slumps into Natasha's waiting arms.

"No," she mumbles into the soft leather of the uniform pressed to her cheek.

Sleep is coming for Beca, like a beast of prey stalking the corridors, drawing in close. But giving herself up to it feels like surrender.

Five days of screaming and pleading -- begging, slowly breaking -- and Beca never surrendered. Never.

But with Natasha's hand in her hair -- and Chloe's closed eyes and even breathing just visible through the window in the door -- sleep comes. It takes her.

She surrenders.

*

Beca wakes up in another hospital, and this is starting to feel routine. Almost as if it's the way things are meant to be.

And maybe so. 

Beca Stark: the girl who was made to be broken.

There's a sort of poetry to it. It sounds like a newspaper headline that could already exist -- and maybe it does. This time they wised up and took her phone, so Beca really wouldn't know what the media is saying.

Probably for the best. 

Sometimes she thinks she hears snatches of conversation with her or Chloe's name from someone passing by the door, or a TV somewhere down the hall might mention "Stark" and Beca feels her heart lurch in her chest. She _knows_ the world must be talking about them, but she _worries_ what they'll say about Chloe.

All of them potentially assuming the worst of her, just like Beca's dad has been.

*

Dad won't listen, and Beca _finally_ works out the reason once she can move far enough to check her chart at the end of the bed.

That takes two full days. (Probably. Her concept of time has gone really wonky.)

But it's right there, in the attending physician's notes: _some knife wounds appear self-inflicted_.

So great. Fantastic.

Beca's dad thinks she's suffering from some kind of Stockholm Syndrome or maybe that she's borderline suicidal now. 

Neither of which is true.

All Beca could think about for five days is how _much_ she wanted to live -- even if it seemed impossible then.

Well, that and Chloe. She thought a lot about Chloe.

*

She _still_ thinks a lot about Chloe.

*

"When can I see her?" Beca asks the moment her mom walks through the door. She doesn't have to clarify _who_ , since it's been the same question since she woke up.

"Beca…"

And the same answer.

(Same resigned tone and worried frown. Like they all think she and Chloe can't wait to get alone so they can take turns stabbing each other.)

"Where is she?"

Her mom crosses to the other side of the room to open the curtains. Beca squints -- wishes she'd close them again -- but she doesn't ask. It feels strange to ask for things now. Like a risk. Exposing a weakness.

And it _is_ weakness, the way her heart hammers harder in her chest because she's still not used to it being this bright. The only time the caves were lit up like this was when the bomb went off or Chloe was waving around a cattle prod.

(Or that time with the candle, flame moving closer and closer to the edge of Beca's peripheral vision until it almost wasn't part of her eye line anymore so much as actually _in_ the eye.)

It must show on her face somehow -- or maybe it's the tension in her shoulders that Beca has no real control over (one body part of many in the midst of a revolt) -- because the windows are dark again, and her mom's looking contrite. Like this is her fault.

As if _she_ has anything to apologize for. 

Beca releases the sheets she hadn't realized she was clinging to -- balled up tight in her fists -- without comment.

Her mom moves quickly (briskly) to pour a glass of water with one hand, easing Beca back against the pillows with the other pressed to her shoulder. " _You_ need more rest." She strokes Beca's hair and carefully avoids every single cut and bruise.

That's almost an art form in itself, and she probably has a lot of practice already with dad.

"Chloe is going to be fine."

Another thing a lifetime with Tony Stark has prepared her for: skillful lying.

*

It's not all the usual suspects.

Steve stops by a couple times, and so does Aubrey. (Who is uncooperative to the worst degree _ever_. She won't answer any questions about Chloe and can barely even look at Beca without tears welling in her eyes.) One time she wakes up to find Bruce asleep in a chair tucked away in the corner.

Rhodey doesn't come by in person -- not that Beca remembers being _awake_ for, anyway -- but there are flowers.

But no Bartons. Not one.

(Not even Jesse.)

Plus the doctor is new, and every time he comes to talk to Beca in that serious voice that only doctors use -- like is it part of their _training_ or a natural inclination that leads them toward the profession like a calling into the priesthood -- her dad stands at the guy's shoulder, eyes boring into his neck like he's contemplating twenty ways to kill the man should he step out of line and break the heart of Tony's dear baby girl.

They're all treating her like she's twelve again. (Or fifteen with a hole newly ripped in her chest.)

It's a little insulting, and also way off the mark.

Beca's never felt so far removed from childhood.

*

The doctor has got his _you might want to be sitting down for this_ face on, which is especially annoying since Beca's been confined to bed rest for the past five days.

(Five days.)

"Some of the scarring will be permanent," he's saying, but Tony leans in to interject.

"I can fix maybe ninety percent of that. Possibly ninety-five."

The doctor shoots him a look, but keeps going, "But with therapy, time, and a little patience, we should be able to get back a lot of range of movement."

But patience is not necessarily a Stark strong suit.

"My hand," Beca says, just so they're all on the same page. Skip the bullshit.

"Both hands, actually." He shuffles through notes, which means avoiding eye contact -- and also the way her dad appears to be breathing more heavily against his neck. "The broken bones should be fine, but the nerve damage--"

"You know, I'm not sure she's had enough rest for this," her mom is saying from the corner, and then she _stands_ (back stiff and straight) to add more weight to the words. "Maybe we should discuss this outside."

"I'm _fine_."

They all turn to look at her at once, the skepticism clear on their faces.

Nobody is ever going to believe that Beca Stark is really _fine_ ever again, and there's not a single fucking thing she can do about it except glare. "I want to know."

*

The broken bones in her hand will take weeks to heal and the nerve damage could be permanent if untreated. There's residual muscle damage caused by electroshock, and a stiffness in her shoulders that makes them hard to move. Something about her ligaments.

Without treatment, both injuries could be permanent.

It's sort of a reoccurring theme.

They want to monitor her heart's condition moving forward, and they give her enough drugs for fighting the infections in her open wounds to last her a month. (The one on Beca's shoulder, where Chloe carved her own mark over the tattoo, requires regular cleaning and some kind of salve that smells _really_ strong.)

Beca sleeps on her side when given the option.

*

The hospital stay lasts a little over a week, and both father and daughter are pretty happy to be gone.

Her mom leaves Beca's flowers with the nursing station and sends them a lovely note a few days later. Beca knows because JARVIS is being nicer than usual, more helpful, and gives her direct access to both her parents' day planners.

Everyone and everything is suddenly so afraid of what she'll do if they say no.

"JARVIS, please tell me they're at least leaving the house today," Beca says, still mostly stuck in bed.

At least now, she's got her phone and access to computers. Even though the occupational therapist her parents hired to harass her on an almost daily basis is apparently really anti-computer -- or at least opposed to typing.

He really has nothing to worry about, because Beca _can't_ type at the moment anyway.

"No appointments scheduled for today, miss."

She groans. "JARVIS, if lower Manhattan was on _fire_ , do you think dad would leave the tower to take care of it?"

"That depends on the size of the overall area of impact, I would imagine."

Despite herself, Beca grins a little. "JARVIS, tell dad that if he doesn't get out of the house, I'll _personally_ set a fire in Union Square."

Just because Beca can't walk down stairs or even dress herself, that's no reason for everyone else's life to stop.

Practically speaking, it might be easier for all of them if they just pretended she was already dead.

*

There are nights that Beca dreams of kneeling at Chloe's feet with blood in her eyes a bruise on her cheek.

Somehow the cave felt less like a cage.

At least there her body still felt like her own, even if it was falling apart. Even if she was dying.

Chloe -- both of them -- treated Beca like a person who was really _there_ , and someone they understood. Someone that could be understood so thoroughly she could be taken apart, piece by piece -- but only with effort.

Now everyone treats her like she's something delicate, made of glass. Or a bomb ready to go off.

Say one wrong word and she'll come apart on you.

*

It's a while before Beca is able to leave the house on her own.

She has a whole host of therapists now -- all for the body, none for the brain since she would only agree to see a shrink if her dad did too, so that was ruled out fast -- and they all appear to have conspired to keep Beca from _ever_ leaving the house again. 

First it's her wounds that need constant tending and care, and then it's her hands. Even after they've made a splint for the left one and a cast for the right, there's a checklist of about fifteen things she's supposed to check before heading out.

Does she have her medication? Did she change her bandages recently? Is she hydrated? 

Did she use the potty and bring a jacket and mommy are we there yet, etc.

It's really fucking infuriating, even if it's well meaning.

*

But as soon as she _can_ , she heads to the Barton place.

There's a pretty good chance that when her occupational therapist approved a trip outside, he didn't really mean all the way downtown to Fifth Avenue -- just past the park -- but that's too bad. Beca hails a cab and glares until the driver finally flinches and looks away when she catches him staring in the rearview.

Not that she can _really_ blame the guy. The bruises haven't faded completely and she's got a wicked scar on her cheek. Maybe it'll heal. Maybe it won't.

Hard to fucking care.

*

There are a lot of reasons the fire escape is a bad idea, but Beca hasn't got a key.

So she settles for the pain -- burning up through her shoulders, aching in her wrist until she has to stifle a scream -- and collapses on the floor as soon as she's through the window. 

She lays there for a while, half-curled on her side, and tries to pinpoint the precise location of each throbbing ache. She might have tripped an alarm, but it's hard to concern herself with something like that when her entire back feels like it's fucking on fire.

Worst case scenario: whoever S.H.I.E.L.D. sends over can help her stand again.

*

Time passes and no one comes.

The Bartons aren't home. She already knows that much from using JARVIS to monitor security cameras in the area. They've barely been home at all for the past few weeks, in fact.

There's even dust on the coffee table. It's easy to see from her place doubled over on the floor. 

It takes time (and effort) to make it down the hall, but she manages. 

Beca could stumble her way to Chloe's bedroom blindfolded.

*

It's just the same as it's always been.

There's a photo of the three of them on the night stand. Beca is _really_ small -- probably eight or nine -- so she's standing on the bench between Jesse and Chloe so that she can almost appear taller, boosting herself up with a hand on each shoulder. They're all laughing.

Next to that, a battered and heavily thumbed through field guide on handgun maintenance. (The book Beca gave her on nuclear physics right next to it, somewhat less worn in.) A ticket stub from the last movie they all saw together. It was Aubrey's turn to pick, so they saw something incredibly lame and also PG-13, but it was still… nice.

The sheets don't smell like Chloe. How could they? 

But when Beca pulls them up over her head and buries her face against a pillow, eyes closed, she thinks she can _almost_ smell her. Just faintly.

*

In the dream, Chloe's hands are in Beca's hair. She touches cuts until they _hurt_ , but Beca hardly minds. A lot of things hurt now.

At least Chloe will _touch_ her like she's something more than glass. (Like she's still really there at all.)

"You feel that?" she coos, nails dragging down Beca's cheek until she draws blood. "Beca?"

_Beca._

*

" _Beca_."

There's a hand on her shoulder -- just _barely_ making contact, grazing really -- but it's enough. The fear rushes up inside her before she can even rationalize -- before she can give name to what frightens her or why it _should_ \-- and the scream that comes out must be horrifying.

It's frightening to hear it coming from her own throat -- a body more beyond her own control than ever before -- but she manages to muffle it against the pillow immediately after, the feeling trembling out of her fast. Her heart is hammering ( _hard_ ), but it begins to calm, and then she's fine. 

Everything is _fine_.

Or it would be, if it weren't for the look on Jesse's face as he steps back and stammers. "Sorry. Beca, I am--" He swallows (thickly), like he's the one who's frightened. "I'm _so_ sorry."

Of course no one touches her. Obviously they _can't_.

"It's fine. Jesse." She sits up and tries to ignore him taking another retreating step back. "… where's your sister?"

"Beca--"

"Your mom, then. Where is she?"

He won't look her in the eye, she realizes. He's examining her shoulders, the sheets, the headboard -- anywhere but her face. Trying to skip over the bruises as his eyes keep moving. "I just wanted to make sure your parents know where you are."

"Go ahead and call them," Beca says, feeling strangely level-headed. Defiant. You can say anything to someone who's too afraid to acknowledge you for more than fidgeting bursts of _near_ eye contact. "Just as soon as you check in with your mom. Oh, and tell her I'm not leaving her house until I see my best friend."

Jesse flinches, just slightly, and takes another step back.

"… no offense. You're totally second best." Beca elbows the pillow roughly and rolls over, ignoring the sharp (stinging) pain that accompanies even that much movement. She's not going to wince with someone watching. "It's almost a tie."

If Jesse responds at all, it must be non-verbal, and Beca doesn't see.

She doesn't care.

*

And she wasn't bluffing.

But they just let her carry on that way, apparently. Her therapists come to the Barton home instead of Stark tower. No one comments or asks questions.

Even when some of Beca's clothes appear on the dresser one morning. No questions. No comments.

All for the best. She was starting to feel guilty wearing Chloe's extra-large Captain America shirt every day.

*

Dinner is weirdly normal.

Like almost unnervingly so, actually. They must have rearranged the table while she was in the bedroom, because there isn't an empty seat left for Chloe. It's almost as if she's _actually_ vanished into thin air -- and Beca can't help wondering if the chair she's sitting in normally belongs to Chloe -- but everyone else carries on as if they haven't noticed.

They're still passing the mashed potatoes and commenting on the quality of the meatloaf. (Which by the way: who in the family of super spies knows how to make _meatloaf_?)

And it's a good meatloaf. It is.

But that's so obscenely beside the point that Beca can only manage two bites before her stomach revolts all on its own.

She's about five minutes away from spelling out Chloe's name in the peas in protest, when Natasha locks eyes with her. "Chloe's already eaten, Beca. You should too."

Just like that. 

As if that's enough.

"Oh, okay. And where _is_ \--"

But a car out in the street backfires, and Beca jolts in her seat, dropping her fork.

Jesse moves to retrieve it for her, but Clint stops him with a restraining hand, which Beca appreciates. Really.

She's injured, not completely incapacitated. She can _pick up a fork_.

Not that she does.

*

Instead she retreats to Chloe's room and finds her way back under the sheets without bothering to turn on the light.

*

Chloe is there in her dreams.

After all the pain (and screaming) she is gentle. They fall asleep side-by-side.

*

In the morning, Beca finds last night's dinner on a plate waiting for her on the dresser.

She's still not hungry.

*

The impromptu hunger strike doesn't last very long, though.

The problem is that it makes you really, _really_ hungry, and Beca's body is still using up a lot of her energy reserves mending all the broken parts of her. Physically.

*

One day Jesse comes to replace the plate of food left out, and he laughs to find it all eaten.

Like she's a dog that's just done a really impressive trick. 

Beca looks up from the book she's reading -- one of Clint's, it's a lot of gunfights juxtaposed with borderline pornographic sex scenes -- and flashes her most winning smile. 

Which probably looks pretty creepy with some of the bruising left on her face. Whatever.

"You want more?"

"Sure." Beca looks down again, her eyes catching on the word _defenestration_. "Bring ice cream next time. With fudge."

*

They're all so impressed with how well she's been sleeping.

It's because they don't understand that being awake is the nightmare and in her dreams -- in that cave, with Chloe -- is the only time she can feel truly at ease. Inside her own skin.

Ripped and bleeding and bruised and broken, but still hers.

The person she's becoming now doesn't feel like Beca Stark at all. Like a shitty impersonator on TV. The Lifetime movie her life has become.

*

One day she's woken by Clint's weight beside her in bed. She's not even fully alert when he pushes a beer into her hand and twists off the top.

"I'm still sixteen," she mumbles, still half sleep-drunk and confused. "And I'm not sure my meds--"

"Shut up and drink."

So she does.

*

She tries making lunch for herself the next day.

It's a spectacular failure, complete with broken plates and a knife jammed into the cutting board.

Nobody says anything.

*

She's beginning to feel like the most invincible broken girl of all time.

*

All that really means is that they won't see it coming. 


	5. Chapter 5

        Your heart starts skipping steps;  
        so you're farther gone than you might expect.  
        If your thoughts should turn to death,  
        gotta stomp them out - like a cigarette. - Bright Eyes, _Down in a Rabbit Hole_

        “I can't explain myself, I'm afraid, sir," said Alice, "Because I'm not myself you see." \- Lewis Carroll, _Alice in Wonderland_

*

Beca's been hearing about the Red Room since she was five.

Chloe was seven. 

The men from Russia came to take her away, but her mother stopped them. She killed _all_ of them. 

There had probably been a lot of screaming.

There was _definitely_ a lot of blood, and not all of it had been cleaned up by the time the Starks arrived. 

They had rushed over as a family, all jammed into Tony's car, and breathing heavy.

Beca remembers the panic on her parents' faces. Their voices lifting (yelling), telling her to wait in the car, but she knew this house. 

This was where Chloe and Jesse lived, and she wasn't going to be left behind.

She remembers her own mother, face pale white, picking Beca up and turning her away from the ( _red red_ ) carnage in the living room. Face pressed against her mother's (red) hair, but she could still smell it.

At the time, little Beca Stark had thought "red room" was the place where the bodies were kept after. 

Even then she knew a few things about the thick, metallic smell of blood. She _knew_ that smell filling up the air. 

Choking them.

(She'd seen her dad bleeding and bruised. She knew what _hurt_ looked like, and the color of pain was always red.) 

Red Room must be the place where Natasha left the bad men after, she'd thought.

She learned differently. Eventually.

Looking back, she wonders how early Chloe knew what it really was.

She wonders how afraid she must have been when new men came to start it all up again.

*

One morning she's gone from the apartment. Just like that.

And maybe they don't notice at first when she doesn't join them for breakfast, because she seldom does that anyway.

No one comes looking. 

Nobody stops her when she hails a cab and heads uptown.

It's just Beca in a pair of her own jeans and a Che t-shirt that probably belonged to a dirty NYU hipster before it ended up in the back of Chloe's closet. 

(It still smells a bit like Chloe's fabric softener. Like her.)

Mom and dad are either asleep or out of the Tower. They're not expecting her, at least.

Nobody's expecting this.

*

The element of surprise is what makes it easy to show up at the S.H.I.E.L.D. research facility out on Long Island and break through the first three layers of security before anyone's ready to stop a pissed off teenager in a metal suit.

In the end, they send in Stacie.

Way to _really_ overestimate Beca Stark's capacity for compassion at this point.

"Beca, you need to _calm down_ ," Stacie says, shouting to be heard over the bullets ricochetting off metal. 

"Oh, I'm calm." 

Sure, the guy she's got in a vice grip might object to that assessment, but Beca's _barely_ squeezing him. 

Overreaction. 

"But I'm gonna drop this guy off the top of the roof in a second if you don't tell me where she is," Beca says, voice filtered through the helmet. 

She's bluffing.

Probably.

But you wouldn't be able to tell by her expression when the helmet peels back and she looks Stacie straight in the eye.

"Beca…"

"Thirty seconds," Beca says, and she can see the calculations running in Stacie's head. Protocol and procedure.

Better run that data fast.

*

Chloe is in Vermont.

By plane it takes an hour to get there, so it's roughly the same with the suit. 

They're waiting this time. No surprise.

Just Natasha.

*

"Move," Beca says, helmet on, breathing labored and shallow.

She is falling apart. Her lungs ache and her shoulders are stiff.

And then there is her hand.

She had to break it free from the cast. No other choice. 

It wasn't completely healed, but it's fine. Serviceable. Good enough to steer the suit, and that's what matters really.

Beca's landed in one piece, after all, and she's sure she still has enough control to shoot a rocket straight through Natasha Barton. Center mass, maximum impact.

Not that she wants to.

She's pretty sure she doesn't want to.

"If I need to stop you, I can." Natasha's voice is level. The edge of a knife. The red hot nerves of Beca's wrist, throbbing inside her hand. Beating quicker, like Natasha's voice going higher, saying, "I will. I know where you're weakest."

She means the places Chloe pulled her apart. 

Of course she does.

Every burn and torn tendon. Every knife wound -- even those self-inflicted, under Chloe's patient guidance -- and the internal damage caused by blunt objects.

The nerve trauma.

Chloe would have confessed to it all.

Or--

No.

She would have _boasted_. She was her mother's finest student, after all.

Maybe a part of Natasha was even proud. At least one of them had taken the lessons to heart. 

Though Beca is finally catching on. 

"Sure," she says, taking one -- solid, heavy, sluggish -- step forward, metal boots almost dragging. "I'll just fly back home. See if I can make it all the way without a crash landing…"

Another step, and no one moves to stop her.

And another.

"You want to see her?"

Just like that. 

As if it's always been that simple -- all these weeks -- and little Beca Stark was too stubborn to think to simply ask for what she wants.

(Too much a realist now to think that she would ever get it.)

Maybe the person she was a month ago would be ashamed of the way her voice catches when she says, " _Yes._ "

The person she is right now can only feel relief.

*

(And pain.

There is still a lot of pain.)

*

She gets to see Chloe, but there is a catch.

(One thing Natasha never mentioned, not during the entire long walk down the corridor together.)

Chloe doesn't get to see her.

Big room, table and microphone. One-way glass, and Chloe's on the other side. 

Strapped to a chair, both wrists bound.

It's familiar in a way that makes every inch of Beca's skin crawl. 

She almost stops dead in the doorway when her eyes lock on the solitary figure -- shoulders stiff, slightly defiant, just like the sharp tilt of her jaw -- but something drags Beca forward.

Maybe it's her body's natural pull.

Metal attracted to --

What? 

( _Chloe._ ) 

"Why is she tied down?"

It's Beca's voice, but she doesn't remember intending to speak. The words just come. Let loose like blood flowing from a wound, and now she's not sure she can stop. She's saying, "How many hours has she been like this?"

Calculating how stiff and sore she must be.

How close to broken.

No one tells you that they have to break you (again) in order to fix you.

(That to be fixed at all, you must become something small and fragile, that can be reassembled.)

"Beca--"

"Does she ask for me?"

She can see the calculations on Natasha's face, too.

Always calculations with them.

These Barton women think they can hide their emotions -- the _feelings_ that could make them weak -- but they're there in the eyes. If you know how to look.

(Beca did her five days of searching. Staring deep into a Barton woman's eyes in search of her soul.

She still couldn't say for certain what she found.)

"Constantly," Natasha says, apparently settling on honesty.

It's a surprise to them both, and it shows. Maybe she had planned to lie up until the very moment it came out.

Or maybe this is a game. Pretend to be caught off guard.

See how easily Beca Stark caves in.

(Easy. They all know. She gives. She breaks. She bends and bleeds and _begs_ for one last kiss, and --

Oh.

God. 

Had Chloe told her that _too_?)

But all she says is, "Oh."

Her fingers pressed to the glass, ghosting lines over the distant planes of Chloe's face. Tapping lightly where her nerves would be. 

The pulse point in her wrist. 

"… when?"

"They had her for three weeks, so--" 

Natasha swallows. She is readying her voice. Preparing to sound neutral, but comforting. 

A very difficult skill set.

"-- at least as long as that," she says. "Maybe longer."

"But." Beca can feel her heartbeat increasing. Already strained breaths growing even more shallow. "It's only--"

"I know."

Chest clenching like the stiffness in her shoulders.

Like the twisted remnants of her hand.

"That's so… far."

She says it like a sigh.

Like letting go of something.

Maybe expectation.

(Hope of healing.)

The metal suit slips away. Gone, just like that. 

It clatters to the ground around her, but Beca's knees beat the helmet in making their way to the floor. 

Both land nearly as hard.

But she doesn't wince. She doesn't cry out.

(That's what they want. What everyone _wants_ is to see -- to know -- the precise moment that you break.)

*

Along with the bruises, lacerations, and nerve damage, Chloe also gave Beca the gift of clarity.

As the daughter of Tony Stark, Beca's always had a front row seat at the media circus that is her father's life. She really thought she already knew more than enough about degradation and pain.

But those five days under -- and eating out of -- Chloe's hands were a master class.

Call it a deep and ever-evolving understanding of the ways that human beings hurt one another.

Clarity, yes.

*

"Isn't she lonely?"

"She misses you," Natasha says, voice low and gentle. (Too loud and you might break poor Beca Stark.) And is that the question she had really meant to ask instead? 

Is that _really_ all she wants to know?

Is Beca Stark really so selfish?

(Yes.)

"I miss..." she starts to say, but there isn't any point. Anyone can tell.

And she's done confessing her weaknesses aloud. 

You see where that gets you.

"Go home, Beca."

Home. 

To the Tower and her disappointed parents who won't say a word -- won't even give her a look of disapproval -- for fear of setting off something catastrophic. 

"I'm not under arrest?"

"Not as of today."

And Natasha is smiling, faintly.

As if any of them have any right to smile.

Ever again.

*

Beca has always hated the in between place.

When she was younger -- and they weren't in Miami or New York -- she and her family would spend days at a time in a cabin in Colorado. It was Tony's idea of exposing her to "different lifestyles," which is probably the closest you can come to deviance when you grow up in relative proximity to the East Village.

He taught her how to fire a hand gun -- apparently forgetting that Natasha had already shown her all this already, with a much deadlier weapon -- and how to tell which plants would give you a rash if you urinated too close to them. (Not a skill she really needed nearly as often as her dad did.)

It was fun, in theory. Scheduled father and daughter bonding time.

But it never felt quite right. 

The version of Tony Stark who spent time with her in Colorado was barely her dad. With so much of his tech back in one of many labs, he was roughing it to a greater degree than just about any human ever has before, if you consider the context. He was off his game the entire time.

Sort of confused and vague, frowning a lot and answering several of Beca's questions with abstract hand gestures instead of words. 

Like he'd left all advanced modes of communication somewhere back in storage at home.

*

The middle ground is way too steep.

Better to be at the base of a mountain of shit than somewhere sunk into the middle.

Metaphorically.

* 

Her hand is worse now.

She had been making progress overall, but now her wrist hurts so much that she almost screams when her elbow bumps against the sofa and the jolt shivers all the way down to the nerves at the tips of her fingers.

Could almost scream, but doesn't. Beca has learned to clench her jaw and conceal the sounds.

The healing process -- that's what they keep saying, although it always rings false -- is too far along to bother with another cast, so the therapists suggest a sling instead.

Tony says, "I've got a better idea."

He schedules her for invasive surgery two days later.

More metal robot parts to replace fragile muscle and bone. New places for Chloe -- or someone else like her -- to send a couple hundred volts. 

(New ways to make Beca Stark scream.)

She cancels the surgery through JARVIS, and then books dad for ten interviews, all in the same morning.

Maybe it'll keep him busy enough to stay the fuck out of her life.

*

But no such luck.

"Beca!" he shouts from the other side of the door. "I know you're in there." 

In the silence that follows, he adds, "JARVIS told me."

As if she couldn't have worked that out on her own.

"I don't need you to let me in, you know," he continues, pointlessly. They both know how the house's security systems work. "I could come right on in if I wanted to."

"So do it." It's hard not to let the sneer creep into her voice. 

Hard to care once it's there.

Her parents don't know how to deal with her now, and they _certainly_ don't know how to discipline her.

They're afraid. 

That's how she knows for sure that after a full minute of silence has passed, her dad has retreated back downstairs again.

Consider it surrender.

*

(You know you're far gone when the minor victories don't even seem to matter.

Someone else retreating is pointless if you don't intend to pursue.)

*

Beca couldn't say for sure how old she was the first time her dad came home with an open wound -- a gash on his forehead that wouldn't stop bleeding. Once the helmet slipped off, she remembers wondering if he could have drowned in his own blood if he'd kept it on much longer.

Maybe she was five, or close enough to feel like a real adult. Very mature now that she was halfway toward double digits. 

Too grown up to be scared by the blood, even as it flattened most of his hair against the side of his head and dripped down his chin. 

But mom was screaming, and that was scary.

Mom was angry -- angry with dad -- which wasn't new or different, but she was _louder_ than usual, and looking at Beca. Over and over.

She remembers, because mom was looking at her when dad did his patented Tony Stark laugh. The charming and disarming one he flashes at cameras or talk show hosts, but mom was never one of those things. She never even blushed.

Instead, she slapped him.

Even now -- over ten years later -- Beca still remembers the sound. 

You're not really _supposed_ to remember vivid detail from that period. Not a lot of it, at least. The brain in childhood is meant to absorb more wide sweeping understanding of the universe, language, etc, rather than minor minutia of moments, but that _sound_ was life defining.

She will always remember how his cheek almost sounded like it was crumbling. 

Like clay figures she would build with the Bartons to play with -- invading the tactical maps their parents (well, Clint) had left out by mistake, or using Chloe's bedroom closet as a final stand against marauding hordes of stuffed dinosaurs (from Tony, of course) -- and how they would fall apart when Beca gripped them too tight. Her dad's body _sounded_ like that.

And his scream.

She didn't have another word for it then.

Now she knows it as the sound that someone makes when they're struck by a bullet or smashed under rubble. The sound a human makes when adrenaline and pain combine to come crashing out of their mouth in _noise_. 

The sound two people make when an explosion rips straight through them.

Involuntary. The body's natural response to intense pain stimulus. 

The sound of electric volts straight to the metal plating around your heart. The sound of a body giving up before the spirit does. Releasing. 

All she knew then was that it was terrifying. More than the blood or even that _tone_ in her mother's voice was the fact that there were things in the world that could make Tony Stark make a noise like that.

Beca was probably five when she first learned to be truly afraid of the unknown things in the world.

*

(Pursuit was something Chloe had nailed down.

Beca pulled away from the knife, the cattle prod, and even the tender touches traced along her ribs, but Chloe _followed_. 

You don't win with surrender. You win by _pursuit_.

Maybe if she'd had another five days with her, Chloe could have taught Beca that as well.

Along with clarity, maybe she would have felt something close to fulfillment.

Maybe it wouldn't have been so bad.)

*

Some time after her explosive visit to S.H.I.E.L.D., Tony hides half of the tools in Beca's lab. Apparently this is the closest he can come to grounding her. (Or really even knowing how.)

Beca knows this much because she sees him do it from the monitors in her room. 

But she doesn't take a trip to the lab. No point really, when her hands would be almost useless. 

Two days later, he returns them all.

She still doesn't go down there, but does use her hands to direct the cameras in the lab that monitor Tony as he puts everything back in place.

It takes twice as long to enter each command line as it ought to.

"Miss Stark, would you prefer to use voice commands?"

She's more terse than she wants to be when she says, "I'm _fine_ , JARVIS."

But she's not. 

And even the house knows it.

*

They've left an undercover cop cab outside her door.

Subtle.

It's been there since she returned to the Tower, but Beca notices it still hanging around when she leaves -- for the first time in a week -- to get a sandwich from a bodega about a block away. 

Chicken basted with some kind of barbecue, on a roll. 

She steps out into the too bright sun, squinting. It's the middle of summer, which hadn't seemed to matter in a cave. 

A lot of things didn't matter there.

So her eyes are unfocused, drifting and eyeing the soft haze caused by waves of heat rising from the pavement -- wondering how many avenues she would have to travel east or west to find kids playing in opened fire hydrants and make believe that everything is normal, sane, functioning -- but she still spots the cab. 

No way there'd be one just sitting there midday on a Tuesday, double parked with someone in the back and nobody shouting or paying. 

Just no way.

If that wasn't enough, the way that neither can (or will) make eye contact as she draws closer confirms it. It makes her feel the kind of smug satisfaction she hasn't allowed herself to know in a long time.

Since before strangers took her best friend away and left something else in her place.

The sort of smug that leads Beca to saunter ever closer, swerving out of her way across the sidewalk, just to knock on the door.

"Hey man."

They both jump and the one closest to her offers a tense smile.

"You going downtown? Want to split a ride?"

They peel off without answering.

Fucking rude.

*

She spends all day in her room or lounging on the sofa, watching trashy reality TV shows and trying to imagine the kinds of things Chloe would murmur close to her ear, mocking whatever was happening on the television.

Like when the ghost hunter on too many steroids asks the spirit to give him a sign by collapsing a building on top of him, she can almost _hear_ Chloe whisper, _"I wish."_

Beca even almost laughs.

This is probably the beginnings of a psychosis.

*

She grabs another sandwich, and it's a different car this time.

Maybe even a different team behind the wheel.

She has headphones in, but instead of listening to music she's scanning police radio frequencies for the first time in over a month. Listening for the nearest disaster.

Present company excepted.

It's set low enough that she can hear the engine turn over when they begin to creep along behind her. Gaining ground.

*

Beca tests her theory by sipping a beer on the sidewalk just in front of the tower. She smiles at random passers by and idly makes note of more than one double-take.

(Even in New York, people will sometimes stop and stare when they think you're about to be arrested or fined. And public drinking from a sixteen year old -- even one who is nearly seventeen -- is twice as illegal.)

But nobody leaves the unmarked surveillance vehicle.

No citation. No fine.

So that basically means: not cops. Her dad's not popular enough for them to look the other way -- not right now, when he recently called the mayor a pretty long string of four letter words on the air -- so they have to be on someone else's payroll.

*

She texts Stacie from the sofa later in the day, saying only: _Your boys are getting sloppy._

The van is gone by dinner.

She really hopes that Natasha or some other equivalent is tearing them a new one.

*

Beca wakes up at midday, feeling groggy. She's not sure when she dozed off precisely.

Tyra Banks is shouting on the TV, and the remote is lost somewhere. Maybe under the sofa.

Or it could be Aubrey has it.

Because that's Aubrey Rogers standing over her. Definitely.

Or this is probably another dream. 

(Correction: nightmare.)

*

This is taking forever, even for a usual Aubrey lecture, but eventually she lands somewhere close to the point with: "Everyone's worried."

"Define everyone."

"Stacie said you almost _killed_ someone."

"Exaggeration."

"And you damaged _a lot_ of property."

Okay, that's probably true.

The look Aubrey is giving her is very dubious. It's kind of unsettling. Beca prefers when she just looks infinitely disappointed and sort of put upon. 

Like Beca Stark is her own personal millstone. 

But this look is almost pitying. It makes Beca's stomach want to revolt, even though she hasn't had breakfast. 

Or lunch. (And it's almost 3pm.)

"Look, can we skip to the point?"

"I'm worried too," Aubrey says, as if _worry_ isn't already written into every inch of her face. "I mean…"

Her expression is almost skeptical. Like she's just not sure if Beca can possibly realize how _bad_ she looks and still not have _done_ something about it.

As if there's an easy fix for all that's wrong with her now. One of those handy pick-me-up words of wisdom cliches that Aubrey loves to spout on twitter or anytime a fan approaches for a photo. _When life gives you lemons, make sure you get enough to start a profitable lemonade stand._

"Aubrey… we're not _friends_ ," Beca says, speaking slow. She's not sure why she has to _explain_ this. "You don't like me."

"But I don't _hate_ you, Beca."

Which. 

Okay, so they don't hate each other. They never have. And if Aubrey were the one who had been chained to a chair and tortured, Beca would (probably) be worried about her too.

Except Aubrey wouldn't be falling apart like this, and they both know it. Because Aubrey Rogers wasn't already two steps away from implosion. 

There's a reason they chose Beca as the most obvious (weakest) target.

"And it's not just _about_ you…" _Any time a door closes in your face, you should check that the hinges are working properly._ "I'm worried about Chloe, too."

Which makes two of them. 

And from the sound of it, even Aubrey hasn't been allowed to see her. (That shouldn't give Beca such a smug sense of satisfaction.) 

"Yeah. Me too."

"Then you need to get your shit together, _Beca_." 

Okay, so.

That's new.

Beca wants to be surprised. Outraged. 

Fucking furious.

But it's the first time someone's treated her like a real fucking person in weeks.

And it turns out, she's not glass. 

She doesn't fucking shatter, even as her voice comes out in a low huff of breath, " _Aubrey._ "

"No! I mean it. This isn't fair to her." Aubrey crosses her arms in an apparent pose of resolute determination. "She can't see you like this. I won't let her, until you get better."

_Be your own worst enemy, and then only you can knock you down._

*

Aubrey's right.

That realization might hurt more than Beca's fucked up hand or the seconds after she wakes up from a dream about being back in the cave with Chloe and realizes where she is instead.

*

(But the groggy, half-lucid daydreams about dozing off against Chloe's shoulder are still worse.

Much worse.)

*

She goes to a shop just off of Times Square, where her dad took her a few times when she was younger. It's small but brightly lit. Shiny and well-kept.

(Everything Beca Stark no longer is.)

They know her there. (Everyone in this whole god damn city seems to know her now.) But this is the kind of place where recognized means they mostly leave you alone.

Mostly.

There is one guy who says something about carrying an amp around with you in your chest, but Beca glares at him long and hard until he turns and walks away.

She carries an anger around with her now that's bone deep but close to the surface, and people wince away sometimes like they worry she might be sharp to the touch. 

And just maybe.

*

She hooks one foot onto the rung of a stool and sits perched at the edge. Alert and kind of awkward, with a guitar cradled to her chest like she's not quite sure how to hold it.

Like she still doesn't completely remember how to _hold_ things. Anything.

Her movements are clumsy at first. Imprecise.

It's been a while since she strummed her dad's guitar and idly learned to pluck a few chords.

It's been some time too since her left index finger obeyed (any) instruction either. 

Some things come back to you with time.

(Some things never come at all.) 

She doesn't know what this is yet, but she hums a little. Tries to ignore the catch in her throat or how her fingers can't keep up with the pace her foot keeps trying to set. 

Maybe that's what healing is. 

Learning to ignore the parts of you that will never be completely fixed.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the long delay between chapters with this one.
> 
> Hopefully you guys will think it was worth the wait.
> 
> This chapter in particular is for [sinandmisery](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sinandmisery), who asked for an Unreal update for her birthday. Sorry that _that_ is late as well, Mads.

*

        "How do you know I’m mad?" said Alice.  
         "You must be," said the Cat, "or you wouldn’t have come here." \- Lewis Carroll, _Alice in Wonderland_

        You let yourself think that everything will be all right if you can only get to a certain place  
         or do a certain thing. But when you get there you find it's not that simple. \- Richard Adams, _Watership Down_

*

Spend enough time with demigods and forty-somethings who were born half a century ago and you start to believe at least a little bit in the possibility of alternate realities.

Other selves.

And if there is another Beca Stark out there, you have to hope she's utilized her blessings just a tiny bit better overall.

Because it is truly a blessing to be born a Stark. 

She knows that. 

It's a gift to have everything you could possibly want handed to you since birth and for your only real problems to be a choice between summers spent in Manhattan or Malibu. 

Maybe if the other her was just a little more -- or perhaps slightly less -- her father's daughter, she would get it all right. Fewer enemies made, or simply more motivation overall to produce something of real value. 

Etch a mark instead of leaving a smear.

Create more than toys and tools for mitigating the self-perpetuating disaster that simply _is_ Beca Stark.

There could probably exist a thousand other hers who are happier.

Who know how to _be_ happy, functioning normally.

Who are functional, full stop.

*

These are the kind of funks it's easy for Beca to slip into when just pulling herself out of bed is a massive effort that requires several minutes of building up both the motivation and momentum.

When dragging the sheets back over her head would be too tempting to ignore if it didn't also require that Beca rotate her shoulder far enough she might feel compelled to scream.

Better to just lie still and _simmer_.

She's had a lifetime of practice emulating her dad. She's very good at moody sulking.

Except.

"It's almost noon, _Beca_."

Nothing can prepare you for Aubrey Rogers. 

She's apparently taken it upon herself to make unannounced house calls on a distressingly regular basis, and for some reason -- totally inexplicable and sort of fucking infuriating -- Beca's parents are facilitating eagerly.

It's probably her mom. 

Tony finds Aubrey and her dad at least as unnerving as Beca does -- maybe doubly so for Steve, who always gets under his skin -- but mom has always considered the Rogers' particular brand of well meaning heroism (paired with constant harassment) to be charming in its own way. 

She thinks Aubrey is motivated and confident (both true), but ignores the rest of reality where she's also a manic (and terrifying) control freak. Now, without Chloe, she's lonely too and in search of a distraction.

Apparently Beca Stark is just the sort of pet project she needs.

It even feeds directly into the whole martyr complex Aubrey's been mastering for years. 

"Get _up_." 

This time the words are punctuated by a pair of jeans flung directly at Beca's head, zipper catching on the curve of her ear. 

She would glare if that wouldn't serve to confirm for Aubrey that she's already awake.

Not that dear team leader really seems to care either way. "I'm tossing parts of the suit next."

Beca's groan into her pillow comes out as half a growl, but that's all the protest that she can manage. 

Anything else would be too exhausting, and it's hard enough just to sit up. 

After snapping for Aubrey to turn around _please_ , Beca drops back into silence, biting off a series of strained grunts caused by just the simple movement of dragging a shirt on over her head. 

"You can turn around now," Beca says, wishing her voice didn't sound so strained and exhausted. 

It almost makes her sound grateful. Someone in need of Aubrey's idea of charity.

She'd really hate to give that impression.

Especially with the quiet and resigned way Aubrey's speaking now, like some kind of a hero. "Maybe in the future, you'll wake up early enough to be dressed by the time I arrive." Almost sighing through every syllable. 

Like she blames Beca personally for Chloe's prolonged absence. 

(And maybe she does.)

"You know, I could try to manage that if you gave me some warning _when_ you're coming," Beca says, but the words sort of lack their usual bite.

In her own ears, she sounds vaguely plaintive. Almost whiny.

Aubrey sighs again. "For now, why don't we assume I'm coming by every day and you just try to be up by eleven, okay?"

*

(And maybe she should.

Who else should shoulder the blame if not Beca?)

*

As part of her apparent mission to improve Beca Stark -- inside as well as out -- Aubrey's composed a list of suggested activities to keep her busy until _"Chloe's triumphant return to our lives."_

Beca hasn't had the heart to go into the details from the last time she saw Chloe in person, but consider it likely to be a triumph only if you adjust your expectations slightly.

Like how it might be a success story if she comes back home at all.

* * *

Every time Beca wears her sunglasses to the beach, Jesse feels the need to comment that it's not exactly covert.

Literally every single time.

"My eyes hurt, dick."

He dances back from her half-hearted swing at his shoulder, laughing. "Leave the lab and try sunlight every once in a while, nerd."

Chloe is wearing shades too, but neither comment on it. Probably because they just look _right_ reflecting her brother's dopey expression back at him. Directly juxtaposed with her bright red hair. "Now, children…"

She grins, and her teeth are just as shockingly vivid as her hair.

Beca's not sure why she notices, but she shoves her hands deeper into her pockets and curls her toes against the sand to keep from saying anything else. 

Minor distractions.

But isn't that mostly the point of Malibu?

Even at the Stark house there, her lab is half the size of the one in Manhattan.

It's never felt like home exactly. More like a place to go to get away.

Escape.

*

"Have you ever tried dislocating your shoulder, Becs?"

Beca squints one eye open, and tries to pretend it doesn't make her cringe. She set the sunglasses aside once they settled in. Even on a lab geek who might spend roughly fifty percent of her time wearing goggles, that kind of tan line isn't exactly flattering. 

But maybe now she regrets it somewhat when she has to shield her eyes just to make out the silhouette of Chloe's shoulder against the sharp glare of the sun. "Hm?"

As if taking pity -- which is something both Bartons seem to do a shocking amount of the time with Beca -- Chloe shifts a little, until she's blocking some of the direct sunlight with her face. 

A halo of glowy red hair.

She holds up the book she's reading higher so that Beca can see the spine: _Escape Techniques and Interrogation Solutions_.

"… oh."

Jesse snorts from his position sprawled out on his belly, eyes closed. "My sister, always the life of the party."

"Always alive, at least." Chloe turns another page and smirks. "Someone _else_ is a little behind on their studies."

But his smile just gets larger, pushing even more of his cheek directly against the ground. "Beca invited us to stay. We're on vacation."

"Temporary leave."

"Emphasis on leave."

But Chloe nudges him with her foot. "No, emphasis on _temporary_."

When Jesse sits up again there's enough sand stuck to the sweat on his cheek that Chloe reaches over to lazily brush it away. "Whatever." Flustered, he swats her hand aside and scrubs with the heel of his palm. Lots of frowning.

"Always articulate."

"Always an _ass_."

Beca waits for the sibling squabbling to settle down before chiming in herself by totally changing the topic. "You guys want to take a dip in the water instead, or do I have to worry about one of you drowning the other?"

Interruptive solutions as escape technique.

* * *

Included on Aubrey's totally awesome and entirely plausible list are things like soccer and ballet. Jogging in the park -- though it doesn't bother to specify Central, Washington, or otherwise -- and various other activities, none of which require the use of hands.

How thoughtful.

"All of my reading suggests exercise is good for recovery," Aubrey chirps over breakfast. Her gentle suggestions have come in a constant staccato of amiable advice since she arrived, leaving Beca very little time to just fucking breath. 

People sometimes seem to forget that one of the hardest things to manage is relearning how to breathe.

"It strengthens body and mind, bringing you more into harmony."

She's still talking, speaking in incredibly even tones like a mantra. The kind of voice they use for people diagnosed with something fatal who are learning to see the bright side again.

Steady and slow, but as unrelenting as the entire fucking ocean.

"You don't have to hang around, you know," Beca finally says as she goes to drop off her empty bowl of cereal in the sink. "I'm fine."

"And then you'll what, exactly? Head back to bed?"

The thought had definitely crossed her mind.

More than once.

* * *

After a hole is ripped through her heart, Beca spends less time in Malibu.

She prefers the density of Manhattan.

Sure, there's always LA, and few things are as isolating as an urban landscape built around each individual in their own car -- nearly four million separate centers of the universe -- but there are too many people there on the lookout for celebrity. 

Not that she thinks she ought to qualify, or ever really has.

But since she developed her new defect, the press have taken an increased level of interest. 

Maybe she ought to be flattered. Hard to know what the right response is amidst the clawing sense of panic rising up inside her throat. 

You could really almost choke.

But in between the wheezing gasps, it's probably totally flattering.

*

There's that one long, isolated stretch of beach where she used to come with Chloe and Jesse.

It looks different now without the crowded filter of conversation. All the other people walking by overtly avoid eye contact. Pretend they aren't snapping photos of her with their cell phones pointed only slightly toward the horizon.

They try so very hard not to get caught staring at the light glowing from under her shirt.

It's not like her core isn't water proof. Obviously, she showers. Tony doesn't neglect important details like that, but the problem is something much more basic.

It's just kind of hard to get away with a bikini anymore.

* * *

One of those many books and articles Aubrey has read also talks extensively about the therapeutic technique of _hugging_ your friends.

It's basically the most awkward and uncomfortable conversation the two of them have ever had. "It, you know." Aubrey obviously flounders for _what_ precisely it does that both of them are meant to know. "… helps."

"I'm just not certain we'd qualify as that."

"Helpful?"

"Friends."

*

( _Breathe slowly, in and out. With ever increasing purpose._

 _When in doubt, find a purpose._ )

*

In the ancient past, the techniques used to interrogate and torture were meant only for confession. The body was ravaged completely and then after left to rot.

Beca had been weakened and abused, it was impossible to argue otherwise, but every cut had been precise. Every bruise and mark had been a careful choice. 

The only obvious answer is she was intended to survive the ordeal. She was meant to be of use later. 

Though a use, perhaps, that would not require a steady hand.

*

She still can't type like she used to, averaging just 76% of her usual for speed and accuracy.

Most complex work on electronics is ruled out for now, until she constructs an intermediary device to interface more directly with the tools in her place. 

Correction: until Tony builds one for her, because of course she can't fucking _work_ the tools long enough to make something to work with the tools.

The truly great dilemma. 

Chicken or egg. Scrambled or filleted.

*

Sometimes Beca looks in the mirror and the face that she sees doesn't feel like her own at all.

It's not just the way she's aged so much in only a few months -- that's normal, isn't it, for teenagers -- but also the look in that mirror person's eyes. 

She seems so alive. Present.

It isn't anything like living actually feels.

*

(Sometimes, she misses the pain and the screaming. To have so much air filling her lungs, proving with every gasp that she was still alive.

To be filled with something. 

Anything.

Remembering clearly how to keep breathing. Succeeding in that, at least.)

*

And when did the people they are on television or on tabloid websites get so very far away from the way she feels inside her own body?

Maybe it's always been that way, and she just never noticed before.

Beca used to almost believe the things they said about her. That she just might be the spoiled but socially inept daughter of a socialite, and little more. Wanting to be super but in actuality only a standard teenage malcontent. Lashing out with lasers instead of graffiti.

But now one website says she's fully recovered and dashing off to Cancun with Jesse while Chloe languishes in a S.H.I.E.L.D. mental facility, never to be released.

Which Beca makes Stacie confirm isn't true, swearing on whatever it is she holds most sacred. (Apparently that's her 92% performance rating during the surprise inspection Director Fury sprang on the Long Island staff last month.) Not the part about Cancun, of course.

"She's still here," Stacie says over video chat. Beca keeps adjusting the cropping of the frame to hide the fact she's lying in bed at 3pm, but Stacie probably picks up on it. All that quality government training at reading body language. "Her mom's in with her right now. You want to say hi?"

"Of course I--"

"To agent Barton, I mean."

Beca has to bite off several choice phrases that come to mind. It's easier than it should be. Talking requires so much effort now. Her jaw would almost prefer a rest.

*

The point is that they became -- or always have been, still unclear -- other people on the inside than the ones everyone else sees. Could be it was inevitable.

She's spent so much time wondering about that image, carefully constructing and arranging, only to have it all ripped away in under a week.

What was it Chloe kept saying over and over inside the cave?

 _Her eyes had been opened_.

* * *

(The blood around the exposed wound on Beca's back won't stop flowing. She's dimly aware of Chloe cooing as she runs her palms over the cuts, creating damaged flesh along the outline of imaginary injury. Something tangible to hold onto as she dips fingers literally _into_ Beca Stark's back.

Beca, who has spent hours thinking that she's too tired to scream anymore, but then Chloe proves her wrong. 

Again.

Chloe has always known Beca better than she knows herself.)

*

No, not just better.

Best.

* * *

The story goes in the Barton household that the reason they settled on that more generic (almost bland) surname is precisely for those reasons.

"The less attention, the better," Natasha had said one day when Beca asked why they weren't all just Romanoffs.

The idea of less attention -- that the press following your family everywhere you go was ever a choice -- had baffled little Beca. Her life had always been soundbites and staged press events. 

The first time she winked at a reporter after delivering some sufficiently flip and dismissive line about progress and change, dad laughed and nudged her mom. 

Still, you can only be so evasive when you have play dates with Tony Stark's prodigy. 

By the time the twins were fifteen, all of them were making the newspapers. 

(Not that anyone still reads those.)

But their faces had also been showing up on super hero blogs and message boards long before that. Places for strangers to talk of their potential futures outside "the family business," or the likelihood of them developing powers. Speculation over whether or not a second Stark disaster was all just a publicity stunt, or if Beca Stark really is that dumb.

Entire threads dedicated to Chloe Barton's rack and debate over her presumed virginity.

This was around the time that a ten-year-old Beca Stark began coding software to automatically search for certain keywords and hack into the accounts of online users she deemed too _offensive_ for her liking. Homophobia, racism, transphobia, and misogyny were easy targets but she also kept an eye out for any Barton related red flags. This included the guys who insisted on calling Jesse a fag -- which obviously scored a two for one -- and the occasional weirdo describing vivid fantasies about Mrs. Barton. 

Those were uncomfortable on about every level imaginable.

*

Now things are different.

It isn't one message board or miscreant. It's everywhere. The entire internet feels like it's out to get Chloe, and Beca's been relegated to the sidelines, watching in mute horror. 

The perversion and sick fantasies, she at least knew how to deal with, but so much of this criticism is disguised as concern.

As if the public at large suddenly gives a shit about a Stark's well being.

She wants to argue with all of them -- not just on Chloe's behalf, but her own as well. But where do you even start when the misinformation is everywhere?

How do you fight something that isn't even the tide of public opinion so much as an entire fucking ocean?

* * *

Beca leaves the beach without stepping foot inside the water. She feels strangely self-conscious heading back to her car after no more than a fifteen minute walk alongside the off-white line drawn by the trickle of the tide.

On the way back to the lot, she overhears a couple talking about a lopsided tree that looks about one good storm away from falling over. Caught somewhere between sand and cement, roots exposed, its insides have become twisted up until they're almost on the outside. 

It's like looking at a beating heart with bark dripping onto the sand. Like a wound still pumping blood.

"Someone should just torch that thing," he says. "Put it out of its misery."

His girlfriend laughs because she's humoring him -- because it's the kind of beautiful day that makes people want to laugh. And she laughs because her hands are pressed against his smooth, flaw-free chest.

No scars, or permanent damage. 

They're young and they're invincible, and it takes Beca another ten minutes alone in her car before her hands stop white knuckling the steering wheel and she can just fucking drive.

* * *

Maybe you have to start with something small.

Or with the big ideas you might have had when you were younger. When you, yourself, were small.

(Because the software still works.)

*

"Beca."

Aubrey sounds exhausted. 

Literally, her voice sounds the way that Beca's body feels -- like her nerves are on fire and it takes effort just to keep standing. "I thought we talked about this."

Or maybe the enormous effort comes from the strain of _not_ shouting in Beca's ear. 

It really seems like she wants to. 

"You've talked a lot lately, Aubrey." At least Beca's smirk is working alright. Shouldn't that count as progress? About a week ago the left side of her face was still too swollen for it to really land like it used to. "You'll have to narrow it down for me."

"I thought we were going to make an effort."

This is probably another technique Aubrey learned from all her research, the way she keeps saying _we_. Like returning the full function to Beca's limbs is going to be some kind of group effort. 

Maybe team bonding over panic attacks. 

" _You_ can make an effort." The way Aubrey's mouth thins out into a perturbed line is only encouraging, though that's probably not the intention. "I'm going to keep being productive right here."

Or destructive. 

Probably in the eye of the beholder.

*

Aubrey spends a full half an hour making increasingly terse sighing sounds and flouncing on Beca's bed in the loudest, most obviously annoyed way possible.

The distraction doesn't work, but you know what, A for effort. Steve would probably still be proud.

Even if in all that time spent sighing and squirming, Aubrey never comments on the state of Beca's hands.

Namely that she's using both to type.

(Sure, she's still in the same clothes she went to bed in, but take the victories where you can get them.)

*

Few things draw the world as sharply into focus as hate. With enough anger and outrage, you can decimate a city or drag a mountain to the sea, even if it's just one stone at a time.

Chloe had said that too, in the cave. 

It wasn't clear to Beca at the time which part of her was speaking. When there wasn't pain or tears to clarify, the rest of the words had started to blend together, but Beca thinks she might understand it better now.

Feeling the anger and how it surpasses and even suppresses every single throbbing pang, she thinks she knows who was doing the talking.

*

(Beca tries to ignore all the ways Chloe's words have held true even since getting out. It's hard to wrap her mind around the revelations or their relevancy.

The numerous ways being broken has helped her now in the process of rebuilding.)

*

It takes just another twenty-five minutes for Aubrey Rogers to surrender. Maybe retreat is easier when it only involves the front door.

Or maybe she already knew Beca was going to call her back.

"Hey, Aubrey!" 

She must already be halfway down the stairs when she hears her name, because Beca can pick up on the way the floor creaks with restless uncertainty.

Actually, that means she's precisely seven steps down. It's the only part of the staircase that creaks, and even then only if you're favoring the center. 

(Beca learned from an early age to either skip that one or cheat toward the right.) 

"… yeah?" Aubrey calls back eventually (reluctantly), and Beca can't help but smile a little to herself. 

The Rogers family is so predictable. Ever the hero, even (or maybe especially) despite themselves. 

"Could you help me set up a twitter account?'

*

Once it's explained -- because no amount of diverting or changing the subject would get a Rogers to drop the topic once it had been breached -- Aubrey doesn't agree to make Beca a twitter account "solely for the purpose of harassing civilians."

But she does ask for a copy of the software on a flash drive and apparently spends the next four and a half hours responding to strangers on twitter with terse and sternly worded rebukes.

The most frequently repeated statement, over and over, reads simply: _Chloe Barton is my best friend_.

* * *

Whenever the go out together in LA in a group of three or more, Aubrey always insists on driving.

Maybe because she doesn't trust people like Beca to obey even the most basic laws of the road, or maybe she just takes too much pleasure out of tsking over the other drivers to give that up to anyone else.

Could be that whole thing where Beca's only just fourteen.

But more than anything, it's pretty clear that Aubrey really likes the power that comes with steering a massive machine through the fast lane.

Hard to find fault there. That's something a Stark can understand.

Not that they encounter a lot of the famously dense LA traffic when Aubrey takes command. She plans every aspect of the day schedule around avoiding rush hour and popular tourist hot spots.

Roughly eighty percent of all conversation when in the car is about efficiency and punctuality.

After a while, Beca starts tuning it out, wondering why she ever let Chloe talk her into inviting Aubrey to California, but Chloe's smile is so indulgent.

Like she's actually listening.

"No, you're right," she's saying, shooting a quick wink toward the backseat at Beca. "This is a _lot_ faster."

Aubrey's response is so terse and tense, it's impossible to detect whether or not she's totally sincere. " _Thank you_ , Chloe."

But Beca's best guess is: absolutely.

* * *

(One time, before hastily being deleted, one of Aubrey's responses on twitter reads: _Chloe Barton is my best friend, and a better person than you will ever be._ )

*

Aubrey apparently isn't the only person stuck on Beca patrol.

Jesse shows up at least once every couple of days, backpack in hand. He flops down on the sofa like he owns the place, feet propped up on the coffee table.

Tony would probably be pretty pissed if he weren't so busy avoiding potential confrontations with his daughter that he manages to never be anywhere that Beca might be as well.

"Does anyone in your family have manners?" Beca asks without looking up from her laptop. For someone who is used to typing roughly 103 words per minute, the reduction in speed that's come along with her injury is beyond infuriating.

"Maybe you don't remember…" She can hear the hesitation in his speech pattern, like he's trying to sprinkle the words in between key strokes. Trying to calculate how to best serve as distraction. "But you kind of broke into our apartment? Illegally."

"Most break-ins qualify as illegal, yeah."

He's sitting close enough on the sofa that their knees are almost touching. Beca shifts while crossing her legs, just to give herself the extra space. 

"I'd say roughly all of them."

His laughter sounds wounded. Like a speaker with a fuse that's about to go, crackling and distorted.

She feels it clenching somewhere in her chest, which is probably a good sign. It means she can still give a shit about things like Jesse Barton's emotional well being.

On the days when Beca feels like all that might be left is the anger, that's probably a good sign.

But not today.

This is one of those days when she's absolutely sure there's more left to her life than that.

Like petty victories and smug satisfaction.

"Grab your gun."

Jesse looks startled when she slams her laptop shut, but quickly tries to hide it. 

As if even just emotions like shock and concern are still enough to send Beca reeling into tears. 

"Problem?" he says, obviously wanting to sound neutral and flat.

"We're going to the shooting range, and I'm going to do better than you." 

Her left hand (damaged, nearly worthless) tries to flex.

Jesse cringes, but attempts hiding that too by turning it into an unconvincing shiver.

"So yeah, that could be a problem. For you." Beca's smile, at least, is steady as it sharpens into a smirk. "Maybe bring your coat. It's colder there."

*

They take a car instead of the subway or the suit. All the therapists say she shouldn't try flying again until she's recovered more accurate range of movement to her wrists and shoulders, since they're both so heavily involved in steering.

Plus there's that whole thing where last time she tried to illegally infiltrate a S.H.I.E.L.D. facility.

Some people take a really long time to just let shit go.

* * * 

"You should be doing this with my brother," Chloe says for probably the second time in about as many hours. She's just about the only person in the world Beca can imagine saying something like that while still sounding totally convinced of her own skill.

It's just that they both know Jesse is better, and that's the problem. 

"He'd embarrass me. By like," Beca waves her hand vaguely. "A lot."

Chloe checks her own target at the end of the gun range and then shifts her gaze over to Beca's. "I'm not exactly going easy on you."

"Yeah, but so far there's less laughter involved."

"More like pity." 

Beca shoots her a look that's meant to be scathing, but sort of dissolves into an amused scoff once Chloe starts shifting her eyebrows up and down. 

She steps closer. "Do you want my advice?" 

"Do I have a choice?" 

Another step.

"You always have choices, but you make a lot of the wrong ones." Her hand settles lightly on top of the bones of Beca's left wrist. "Try this hand."

"I learned with my right."

"Yeah, because my brother's a dumbass who didn't realize you were left handed."

"I was four."

Chloe's grip tightens around Beca's wrist, and she's not sure if it's meant to be seen as insistent or a warning.

Either way, it's not a mistake. 

(Chloe doesn't really make those, especially not with contact.)

She's always hyper-aware of her own body and personal space, especially in how she uses it. Like now, positioned right behind Beca so that the younger girl has to turn her head to make eye contact.

It's uncomfortable, and Chloe has the upper hand.

Not that she ever needs it against Beca.

"Yeah, so we were six." The laugh is really close to Beca's ear as Chloe slips the gun into her hand in one seamless motion. "But I noticed the first day we met you."

Beca had enlisted the two of them to try breaking into her father's lab for the first time while the adults were distracted downstairs. Balanced on top of Chloe and Jesse's shoulders, she must have used her left hand when reaching for the door.

Just moments before they all fell into a heap on the floor.

*

She's still not exactly scoring at Jesse or Clint Barton levels using her left hand, but Beca does okay.

Enough so that Chloe starts bumping into her shoulder after every emptied clip, smiling. 

"Not bad," she says, landing her own next shot just a millimeter left of center.

*

Fucking Bartons.

* * *

Jesse bails on her after they wrap things up at the shooting range. Probably because he doesn't know how to deal with winning against someone he feels an obligation to never gloat in front of again.

Or maybe because he's used to walking through life with a platonic (literal) other half at his side and now every step he takes is a little less steady.

Beca can understand. 

The actual chunks of her flesh and the atrophied muscles are far from the only things it feels like she's lost.

In some ways, Jesse is probably the only person who comes close to understanding. 

Second only to--

"How's your shoulder, Becs?"

Beca's got her hand on the pistol's trigger, and even though it isn't loaded she feels her grip tighten. 

That isn't intentional. She's not even sure if it's instinct, and maybe neither is the rush of blood that floods her mouth when her teeth clench and she bites her own tongue when she looks up.

To see her standing there.

And maybe it's beyond reason or awareness when Chloe clutches at the door frame, either. She's seen this room before.

Passed years together here. Countless slumber parties and sleep overs. Whispered about handgun maintenance and listened patiently while Beca explained a new technique or technology.

Pinned Beca to the bed with hands around her throat, whispering softly about her imminent death and destruction.

"… better."

Chloe doesn't leave the doorway.

Like she isn't welcome. 

Holds back like maybe she thinks she isn't really going to be welcome anywhere anymore, and even once Beca starts moving toward her there is that slightly (clumsy, stiff) limp in her step that only makes Chloe draw back further.

So this is where they stand now.

Several feet apart with each clutching (clinging) onto something else. 

She still hasn't let go of the gun, and Chloe's eyes are latched onto it like something she should have expected. Something she thinks she deserves.

Beca is so quick to get rid of it then that she doesn't even bother with reassembly. 

There will always be time to put things back together later.

(She has to believe that.)

"You look…" 

But Chloe chokes on the words. Really, she _chokes_ , and Beca has never seen her cry so much in all the years she's known her as she has in the past few months. 

(Never as much as she did in those five days.)

"I'm good," Beca says, hoping the lie sounds convincing. Trying to smile in the way she's always learned to from watching her dad.

The kind of lie that might normally make a Barton woman proud. 

But Chloe's scoff says she's unconvinced. 

Not that she doesn't already know all the secrets. 

Still.

"Ouch." Another step, steadier this time, and Beca is almost close enough to touch. Working hard not to remember all the things that happened (and hurt) the last time their hands were on each other. "That bad?"

One more step back and Chloe doesn't have anything left to hold onto.

Her hands are just hanging in the air, uncertain and unsteady. 

Beca's never seen a Barton's hands shake before.

* * *

It's always surprising when the water is still freezing in February.

It shouldn't be. These are the basics of how the calendar works, but the sand is warm under her feet up until the precise second she steps out into the water. 

Stepped. 

Had stepped, many times, over and over. 

Until now.

"Maybe tomorrow," Beca says, feeling like her jaw is too stiff. Like it can't possibly be moving right, because the words come out stilted and strange. 

Not her own voice at all. 

And it barely sounds like Chloe's voice, not the one she recognizes, when she answers, "No."

But the Barton women have always loved a good surprise.

"… you said when I'm ready."

"That's obviously going to take too long," Chloe says, strong fingers wrapping around Beca's left wrist. "So I guess I lied."

Her grip is warm and sure against the stiff ridges of bone and she walks steadily on, but without dragging or pulling hard. Not even once. 

Beca doesn't drag her feet or stumble.

She doesn't hesitate until the shocking cold of the water makes her hand reach out to clench Chloe's inside her own. Squeeze and shiver.

"Fuck," she scoffs around a laugh, and this time it's more like her own voice. 

Even if it's only a small change, it's a start.

They take another step, and then another. Until they're both waist deep inside the ocean, knuckles turning white together. "Okay, so…" Beca thinks her teeth are close to chattering. "You made your point really well. So can we--"

"Shit, yeah." Chloe's already dragging her back toward shore. "I thought you'd never ask."

Barton women know how to make an entrance and an exit.

* * *

"I've missed you," Beca says into the space between them. She tries closing it, however slowly.

One step after another. 

And another.

But Chloe matches her on each and every step, backing away. Increasing the distance. "That's probably not good for you."

"Yeah, well." Beca feels her heartbeat inside her own head. The pulse hitting away against her temple. "Good thing you're here now, huh?"

"That's not what I--"

"I don't care."

Chloe swallows. Her hands are still shaky and there's a tremor in her throat. 

Beca wants to hold her like she did in the cave. To fix it, somehow.

(The last time she could grip anything as tightly as she used to, it had been Chloe's palm. Fingers twined together, like they'd never let go of each other.)

But that didn't fix anything. 

It didn't even slow it down. Momentum is what's brought them here. 

It's why Chloe hasn't left, even though she keeps retreating. 

This is where they've landed now. 

Still several feet apart, but Beca's slowly gaining ground. 

Getting closer. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a beast. It took a lot of help from a lot of people. They are far more talented and patient than I am. 
> 
> I'm forever grateful. (All the good stuff about Chloe probably came from [lescousinsdangereux](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lescousinsdangereux).)

*

        Once you are Real, you can't become unreal again.  
        It lasts for always. - Margery Williams, _The Velveteen Rabbit_

*

Beca and her dad are alike in more ways than they're not. 

Once you discount the more basic physical differences (like how she's a lot cuter), and you ignore the fact that he's an old ass man, they start to align even more. That's probably why they can almost never agree on anything. 

Well that, and he's wrong about a lot of things.

Kind of everything.

*

Like the time that the MTA decided to give her dad a couple million to "modernize" their system. No big surprise they'd overspend like that really, they're famous for not knowing how to manage money, but then dad became preoccupied with installing completely unnecessary AI into stations that already have video displays. Like comments on the weather or what commuters most need out of their daily travel.

Beca thought maybe he should care more about the 2nd Avenue line, or even just making the L train run on time. (Not that she expects her dad to work miracles.)

"Who cares about Brooklyn anyway?" he says, without looking up from his tinkering. 

Seriously. Such an old ass man.

*

He's wrong about the subway and dessert preferences too. He has dumb ideas about the Yankees batting order, and he has vetoed several of Beca's suggestions on ways to convert natural energy into the suit more efficiently.

"Too dangerous," says the man who once tried to get Dr. Banner drunk on a cross country flight.

*

Beca remembers when she was still young and dumb enough to think that her dad knew everything. Before the fights over calculations (or just simple Calculus) and the bravado over which of them is brave (or dumb) enough to don the suit.

Before the strangers with accusations in the park, yelling about a death toll she was too young to comprehend.

Back then, her dad was everything.

*

Most of the time, he still thinks he is.

*

Zoom in on Tony Stark, one man in a crowd of hundreds. He's shorter than all of them, but the stage is angled to disguise that. He moves his hands with a magician's flourish and the same level of sincerity. So many things are up his sleeves.

He gestures to the wings where Beca is waiting. She is still openly self-conscious in front of a crowd, although she'll learn to hide it soon. Now it's still there in ever line of her shoulders and spine, the stiff way she stands at his side as people cheer. 

"The future of Stark Industries," her dad is saying as he playfully ruffles her hair before Beca swats his hand away. 

Apparently. 

She doesn't recall anything from that day, not as an actual memory of her own, but she's seen it a thousand times from at least thirty different angles. 

Almost none of them her good side.

*

Later Chloe teases her while the footage runs over the next afternoon's news.

"Does your hair only look like that when you're nervous?" she whispers close to Beca's ear, as though it might drown out the fighting from the other room. 

Tony wasn't supposed to bring her out in front of the crowd, and mom isn't happy. 

Their voices are rising and Beca's heart is sinking. 

Suddenly, the sounds are muffled. The door is shut; Jesse must have closed it, because Chloe is still pressed to Beca's side. She's warm and whispering again, giggling when she says, "You look good up there, for a weirdo."

Beca blinks so many times that the face on the screen hardly seems familiar. She doesn't know why, but her eyes don't want to stop.

She blinks, and the world swims.

*

The cameras never blink.

They never flinch.

It's the worst game of chicken of all time.

* * *

Six years later, Beca is screaming in the streets. She beats her iron fists against solid brick, but nothing relents.

The only thing to give way is her.

On her knees, tears burning through her blurry vision, she sees the flash of a photo going off. 

Then another.

*

Her memories of that moment -- the bitter taste of bile and copper blood in her mouth -- align at least with what the cameras saw. Her shoulders sag and she seems to surrender.

That was real. That was really her.

*

The first time Chloe came home again (or at least they thought she had), Beca remembers taking lots of photos for themselves. Any time the fear and the choking sense of hopeless panic seized up inside her chest, she pulled her cellphone out and snapped a shot.

Like she could hold back the creeping onslaught of time by freezing them there in that moment. 

_Look, we were happy,_ their smiling faces say in every photo, but it was all a lie, and Chloe had told it so well. 

They all had. Playing pretend at being normal and fine. 

Fixed. 

She doesn't even look at them now. She nearly emptied out her entire Dropbox account one night when she was feeling particularly maudlin, but if she followed every destructive impulse she's had since getting home there would be almost nothing left inside Stark Tower.

The shrink that S.H.I.E.L.D. made Beca talk to after blowing a new door into the side of one of their facilities says the desire to act out is "perfectly normal." People who feel trapped inside their own bodies, she says, will often try to make their mark on the world outside them.

But isn't everyone stuck inside their own body? Who are these people getting some kind of lease on another life?

Where can Beca sign up.

* * *

There is old home footage of the three of them, in vivid color.

Beca is young, but already an asshole. Her dad would call it "confident," but that's just because she takes after him in a lot of the worst ways. 

She's climbing up little Chloe Barton's back -- two years Beca's elder, but still small herself at that time -- and Beca's got one hand gripped tightly in Chloe's hair, trying not to lose balance, while the other arm is pinned snugly against the other girl's throat. 

Beca's hand is outstretched, reaching for whatever forbidden thing is hidden on the table, just out of reach, but Chloe's eyes are on whoever is behind the camera. 

She's calm even in her surrender now that they've clearly been caught, patient and nearly compliant as her friend almost strangles her in pursuit of some dangerous and dumb idea. 

But they were just kids. 

Just dumb kids.

* * *

The distance between where Chloe once was and where she's standing now, looking at Beca from across the hall, feels like a lifetime.

In reality, it's just a few feet. 

"I've missed you," Beca says again. She's vaguely aware of the fact that JARVIS is too quiet with company here. Usually he would notify someone or perhaps offer Chloe some refreshment. She wonders if the person he's informing instead is her father, and suddenly she's speaking faster. "Are you okay?"

"Jesus," Chloe laughs, but it isn't a natural sound. "Me?" 

"I know how I'm doing." 

Chloe's eyes drift over Beca quickly, sizing her up. It isn't a flattering assessment, even if she tries to hide her reaction. "Yeah…" Barton women don't lie as well as they think they do when it's someone they truly care about.

Or maybe Beca just knows how to read Chloe. Sees her clear enough to recognize the pity that everyone attempts to conceal whenever they talk to Beca now.

"Look at me, not my bruises," she says, sharper than she means to, and Chloe's eyes obey. 

She looks and, for the first time in weeks, it feels like being seen.

*

For several moments, they're both silent, swaying slightly on their feet.

Only Chloe can understand her so completely inside of a silence. (Not just because they shared the cave together, but there is that too.)

The only sound is both their breathing, steady but sometimes uneven. 

That is, until the heavy thump of Tony's footsteps as he takes them three at a time. His eyes are flashing wide when he swings his hand out to grab the banister for support. "Chloe," he says, and neither of them look. "Don't you think you ought to go home?"

*

She did think so. She did go home.

From what Beca can tell, she hasn't left her house since.

*

It's easy enough to find Jesse Barton if you know where to look.

The bar around the corner used to be a good bet, until people decided he was too good at darts and that somehow qualified as "cheating." Skee ball at Coney Island is another common choice, but it's far too long a trip to swing out there just to see. 

Beca decides to level the playing field with some basic reconnaissance. 

If she weren't already casually monitoring the internet activity of all of her friends, this might be a challenge.

Obviously it's not.

Call it creepy if you want, but it's really just somewhere closer to cautious. Preparation.

*

Turns out it's door number three.

*

Thank god Jesse buys his tickets to Dumb Action Movie Part Two via fandango.

Now Beca knows the showtime and location, and she leaves herself plenty of extra time to grab some popcorn for her wait next door in theater #10 until closer to the start time at 7:15.

It tastes alright even though she put on way too much salt and has to give up on the attempts to toss kernels into her mouth as soon as she realizes how pathetic and clumsy the arc of each throw is.

Put that down as another thing invincible and amazing Beca Stark can't pull off anymore.

*

Twenty minutes past the hour, she slips into the very last row, two seats behind Jesse and his dumb incognito baseball cap. She waits for the action to set off on screen before making a sound. It isn't much of a wait. Movies are really fucking violent these days.

Maybe they always had been, and she just never noticed before. 

A bomb goes off on screen, vibrating through the surround sound, and she feels her hand instinctively grip the armrest. 

The sound of breaking bone crackling through in stereo is so much more realistic than she remembers it being. 

Another thing she never noticed, but probably should have. 

After all, she was never really just another innocent. 

Never some dumb naive kid.

*

Beca waits until the soundtrack is swelling and the two dimensional characters are shouting pointless things to each other -- about their convictions or moral values in the face of really shitty odds or whatever -- to toss a single un-popped kernel at the back of Jesse's head.

But it misses. 

"… shit."

Two seats down, a guy bristles when he hears Beca's huffed exhalation, turning slightly as if in warning, but Jesse doesn't react at all. Not even a flinch. This obviously calls for a slightly more direct approach. 

"Hey, Barton." 

He perks up this time, but doesn't turn. 

That's instinct. 

They've all spent too much time being hounded by reporters and weirdos to risk turning to the first voice calling out their names in public. 

They know better, so it's probably pointless when Beca just lifts her voice, saying louder, " _Jesse_ Barton."

"Shhhh," the really agitated guy hisses a whole lot louder than Beca herself is even talking. "We paid to hear the movie, not you."

The guy has a point, and it shouldn't bother her. Maybe in the past or even any other day of the week it wouldn't, but being dissected has left Beca with a pretty short fucking fuse. "Oh, okay." She sits up straighter, shoulders squared, and looks the guy right in the eye. "Let me help you out: explosion, explosion, she dies, he avenges, the world is saved, the end."

It shouldn't be a surprise when Jesse laughs (still without turning), but it is. 

It's a good sound, and she can't remember the last time she heard it from him. From any of them.

Not a genuine laugh like that. 

(Maybe he still makes them, just not around Beca. She hadn't really considered that until right now, when he's still not looking her way and maybe doesn't even realize who the voice belongs to.)

Except suddenly he's flicking her off, and she feels that much more sure.

"I love you too," Beca says, talking at a normal volume now, just to piss the other guy off. 

She's petty, but it's working. She can see the guy stiffen even as Jesse shakes his head with silent laughter. She recognizes the certain shift to his shoulders, a careful rumbling roll. "You're desperate," he says, finally, and the guy throws his hands up in the air before exiting the other side of the row.

Beca takes that as her cue to slip around into the empty seat at Jesse's side. "So… how're things?"

"You mean Chloe."

"Of _course_ I mean--"

"Shh," says annoyed patron number two. 

Under normal circumstances, Jesse would probably feel an obligation to scold her for talking in this most sacred of spaces, the multiplex in Union Square, but this time he grins. He's still pity humoring her apparently. "You're going to get us both thrown out."

"You know, I've been banned from every S.H.I.E.L.D. facility in the city, but you're right, it's definitely _Regal's_ opinion that's really got me worried." 

"Priorities, Stark."

"Exactly." Priorities like bright blue eyes and a smile she might never see again. "So, your sister."

"She's fine." 

His mouth twists just trying to say the words. 

There's a bitterness to the lie that must come from how desperately they both wish it were true. They never spoke these things before, when she first came back. When they thought that everything would be okay if they just ignored the deep dark fears lurking inside their chests. 

How wrong they were.

*

Beca buries the photos of Chloe -- curled up in bed at Beca's side, fingers in her hair; smiling while she eats ice cream; or hand-in-hand with Aubrey -- in a folder titled "Thanatopsis," because she's especially dramatic when she's furious with herself.

She hides it several sub-directories deep. Like a tomb.

*

( _—and what if thou withdraw_  
 _In silence from the living, and no friend_  
 _Take note of thy departure?_ )

*

Beca doesn't need the photos now. Their faces are everywhere.

The cameras of seemingly everyone in the city are trained on all of them now, night and day. 

It makes her job a little easier, at least. 

She knows, for example, that Aubrey has been hanging out around the Barton household for almost two weeks straight. While it's hard to imagine her and Chloe are having some kind of chill slumber party, the fact is that she hasn't been thrown out yet, which is way more patience and restraint than Beca would ever demonstrate around Aubrey.

Maybe everything really is fine, and Chloe's back to being the most tolerant person alive. 

After all, she still hasn't done anything about the paparazzi gathered on the sidewalk outside. They're even some of the real bottom feeder types, hoping to grab a quote for TMZ. 

When the vultures used to circle just to snag a shot of Beca -- post unexpected new-hole-in-chest surgery -- sometimes the twins would go up to the roof and dump water over the edge. Pretend not to have noticed the cameras down below. 

For now, Chloe apparently stays inside. Leaves them shouting at the windows, or mumbling at the closed front door. 

You can't contain what you never even see.

* * *

The camera loves Tony Stark, and he does a good job of pretending that he loves it back. But there aren't many things Tony loves as much as himself or his machines. (Maybe his family is the only other thing to make that list. Maybe his friends.)

But the news cycle loves him, or at least they once did. 

They like him best the way they choose to picture him. Drink in hand and a girl on either arm. They wish he still existed inside that space, even though it's been ages since he messed around with either.

What a relief it must have been for them when Beca was born. 

A new Stark to fuck up in public.

*

That is, a new Stark who would fuck up in front of the cameras as well as a brand new Stark for the media to work at fucking up.

It was a concentrated effort. Lots of focus.

"Hey Beca," they say once she's old enough to be out on her own, no mother to run interference. "Where's Jesse?"

They ask about him a lot. Her dad never got pinned down to one person, no one woman associated to him by name, but that's because all they wanted was his name. The Stark name, and the Stark money. But that's all still Tony's, and Beca's just the sideshow attraction. Maybe they hope if they can needle her enough, she'll lash out. 

Give them all the good show they really paid to see.

*

They still ask about Jesse sometimes, but now it's Chloe they're after. They ask questions about her, and Beca feels something inside her grow very stiff and still. A tension that twists in her chest and all the way down her spine.

She's strangely pleased with herself for the speed with which her fingers can still flex into a fist at even the thought of those men who follow her around with cameras. It somehow feels like progress. Poor impulse control implies that she could still be impulsive.

Maybe not progress then. Regressing toward her former self instead.

Short fuse to match her height. Her jaw clenching every time someone shouts near her ear.

They ask about therapy and invasive surgery. All those days under different people's knives. They ask if and when she'll ever fly again.

Her entire body is anger and tension, clenching and controlled like her fury. 

Relentless as a fist.

*

There's footage of Chloe on the news every single night. "Shocking new details" and "disturbing reports."

It's like a car crash that Beca can't quite look away from, but the debris is located somewhere at the center of their lives.

Close up on Chloe Barton, seventeen and smiling, her brother goofing off behind her. Beca Stark is in the background, as always, but the camera is in love with Chloe. The people too. Everyone loves Chloe, because they believe (easily) that she loves them back.

She smiles in this way where you really think she sees straight through to the center of you and doesn't mind any of what she finds. 

Maybe she even likes it all.

*

Beca plays the footage of Chloe over and over, standing so close to the screen that the pixels start to distort and stretch.

Keep so close, it's almost like there are spaces between the image, crevices you could creep into and disappear back inside the memory. Like maybe she could find a place somewhere in the past and stay there, her hand in Chloe's. 

Those deft hands that have tangled their fingers with her own to lead her along the sandy dunes of Malibu or criss-crossing through foot traffic in Times Square. Chloe can ease and guide just as easily as break and strip essential parts away. 

It's just a matter of looking and perspective. About priority.

* * *

("Do you feel that?" she had asked. "Yes, of course you do."

Chloe's fingers were slick with Beca's blood, but it was the strands of loose hair dragging over Beca's throat -- Chloe pressed so close she could feel every breath traveling between them -- that drove her insane.

"That's good, you know." 

"… good?"

Even Beca's words felt hazy, like something reaching them both from across a great distance.

She'd kissed Beca on the throat, and neurons were firing rapidly. Much faster than either of them could move or talk by this point.

"If you can feel the pain, it means you're not dead.")

* * *

Beca's dad is plugged into enough sources of information -- including a few places that aren't entirely aware of his presence -- that he has eyes all over the city. It's an obscene invasion of privacy not all that unlike what it's like to grow up as a Stark.

She wishes she still had the luxury of compassion for these people whose biggest worry might be that their kinky Google searches could go public.

They have no idea how easy they have it.

*

Beca tries to remember what it was like sometimes. To be so young and stupid that they could feel invincible, even with all that evidence already embedded inside their lives of how shitty the world could be. Would be.

Not just Aubrey's mom -- the one who no one speaks of, even now -- doing a disappearing act before her kid was old enough to crawl, or the numerous times the Bartons have kicked the three of them out of the apartment for "alone time" that pretty clearly involved the removal of bullets from wounds followed by the heavy application of antiseptic. 

The paparazzi and the news reports. Psychoanalysis by strangers.

Admirers who follow you for a block and a half, stop you for a photo, mumble in earnest about how much you mean to them, but get affronted when you don't want to talk. When you have someplace else to be. 

Like they forget that you exist outside those screens and snapshots; you're still there even when they close their eyes.

*

They should have known it earlier.

Or maybe they did, and just didn't know what to do except go on pretending that life like this would be okay.

*

The file name is something innocuous. That's sort of what draws her to it.

Tony has a very specific system where most of the important documents are named things that might seem benign, and Beca knows his filing system by heart. 

She doesn't recognize this folder. 

Sure, she's snooping. It's immoral or whatever, definitely illegal. But so is every act depicted in the video. 

It opens as a mpeg, audio too high.

It stings inside her headphones, so she hits mute and the off-white (almost grey) figures on the screen are suddenly silent. It's security footage quality, distorted and grainy in a way that makes you feel dirty just looking at it. 

The camera shifts and moves, zooming in. There's someone directing it.

A human had been watching with interest as another person who hardly looks human herself anymore dangles in chains -- screams so loudly that the sound had distorted inside the static -- and the only thing they cared about was capturing it all on camera. 

Beca turns the sound back on, and listens to the screams until everything inside her head (and heart) is aching. She doesn't bother to lower the sound after all, because she's already heard it ringing in her own ears before.

That's her on the screen. Those are her screams.

*

There's another file, similar name.

Something in her gut -- the sick and wet feeling that turns over inside her -- knows what it will be before she clicks. But she does.

*

She backs out of the file only two minutes in. It feels too invasive.

Not her place to see those things.

*

(Chloe looks so brave when she takes the first slap. The force of it sends her head rocketing to the side, but she almost doesn't flinch.

In fact, she laughs. Licks the blood from the corner of her lip and laughs.)

*

Nobody should see these.

And yet.

* * *

Beca and Tony have never been good with direct confrontation, especially not with each other. A lot of the time, they'll use her mom as a mediator.

The few times that hasn't been possible, things have not gone well.

*

Beca is fourteen years old when Tony catches her working on the code for a modified strain of Extremis.

To say that he's unhappy would be an understatement. 

He looks ready to put a metal fist through the wall, or at least toss her laptop out the window. She moves quickly to avoid either possibility, pulling the plug from the outlet with a jerk and hiding the data from view.

He huffs, his mouth contorting and twitching. He looks like he just caught her dismembering a dog. "If your mom knew about this…"

"I wasn't going to tell her. Or you."

This isn't the first time her dad has tried to make her feel bad about wanting to know the same kind of things he used to find worth knowing. 

"That isn't the point," he insists, moving closer. He's still agitated and it shows in the way his hands jerk and twist, but his expression is softened by worry. "Once something's out there, you can't stop it. An idea becomes its own thing. Information can grow legs -- attractive long ones, like your mom's."

Beca doesn't know how to respond to concern that doesn't come layered with more indignation, although the (really inappropriate) innuendo is at least familiar. She doubles down on the outrage for both of them. "That's bullshit, and you know it. Nobody got in your way when you were figuring stuff out--"

"Well, maybe they should have!"

His face is hard but his eyes look exhausted and worn down in a way she can't really comprehend -- and doesn't exactly care to -- when he wipes her entire hard drive with just a wave of his electromagnetic field generator. 

Just like that, months of work disappear. Not just on this project, but everything. All of it.

Beca moves to slap him (it's the only thing she can think to do), but he just swats her hand aside and slams the door on his way out, shouting, "Don't even think of grabbing the backup from the cloud!"

*

He's right. The cloud storage is down before she gets to it.

She doesn't speak to him for nearly a month before mom eventually asks what's going on between them, and Beca realizes she wouldn't be able to stand to see the look on her mom's face if she tried to explain. 

Maybe dad was right about a few things. (Though she wouldn't want to admit it.)

It could be there are some things that are better off unknown.

* * *

(Like the look on Chloe's face when the blood flows so hard and fast it begins blending with her hair.)

*

Tony's welding something onto the latest iteration of his own suit when Beca slams her way in without bothering to knock. The sparks set her on edge, even now.

(She remembers arcs of light dancing close to her reactor, blue glow pulsing against the corner of Chloe's eerie smile.)

There was a time when she would have been curious about what her dad was working on. Maybe an adjustment to the shoulder rotation, or a tweak to the thrusters. His flight path has looked a little off. That would make sense.

But right now, she's too pissed off to care about the science or the specs. 

It's a first.

"When were you going to fucking say something?"

She shouts loud enough to be heard over the music he always plays in his garage, and it's almost effortless. Screaming is the default state of being for now.

He rips the goggles off his face as he turns. "… Beca."

"Yeah," she almost spits out. "Me."

He blinks at her and starts to stand up.

"Do _not_ come closer."

He stops, still blinking, goggles in his hands. But he doesn't come any closer. At least that he understands. "… you've been snooping again."

"Don't turn this around on me." 

She hasn't felt this angry in a long time. 

Maybe not since the day that Chloe was taken away. All she had then was her guilt and her shame. No enemy to face off with. 

Now, at least, she has her dad. 

"Beca--"

"I'm not a fucking politician--" 

Her voice is rising even higher now. 

She's remembering herself standing panting in the streets, shoulders heaving, pulse pounding, and Chloe nowhere to be seen. 

Chloe gone, gone for good, and Beca alone with her rage. 

"--I'm not a chump investor you can just push aside to--"

"That is _not_ what I'm doing."

"Are you sure?" She moves closer, the anger wrenching through her with every shaking step. She feels her pulse pounding a thick staccato in her temple, like flash bulbs going off at a press event. Like the kind of thing her dad is still grandstanding for. "Do you even know the difference?"

He starts advancing again, and she's thinking that if he gets close enough she might really hit him. To hell with her hand and its gradual healing process. 

It would feel good, at least. A choice she could make for herself. 

But he stops short to place his goggles on a table alongside an array of tools.

(She hates herself for making note of which ones. For not being able to shut up that clinical side of her brain when pure emotion wants to be in charge for a little while, pounding on the sides of her skull with each heavy thump of her heartbeat.) "Beca, you're not listening."

"Were you just going to sell it for profit or watch it a couple times to get your rocks off?"

There's the anger. It's back.

Good.

"I'm keeping an eye out," he says, carefully flat. Excessively neutral. "I took a few screen captures, mostly benign, and if anything pings in an image search across any database, I'll flag it. If it's out there anywhere else, we'll find it."

Chloe's face is already there, though, one place too many. Her distorted screams and the awful pain. Maybe what Beca imagines is even worse than what is. Like the way she can't stop wondering if Chloe's screams were as loud as her own. Did the sound distort for her too, or-- 

"It's up on _your_ server." 

He doesn't deny it. Instead he frowns in that slightly disappointed way he uses when everyone else is being too emotional and irrational. 

It's his squinty-eyed expression reserved for being a condescending dickhead. 

Like he's some beacon of calm and clarity.

"You watched it." He's silent, so she presses on. "The footage, dad. Me and Chloe. You watched it to get your screen caps, right?" 

No real answer, but he almost nods. Just a little. 

Barely perceptible. 

Those grainy and dark, flickering images of Beca being broken. Chloe being violated, turned inside out into someone new. 

Her dad saw it. Maybe he saw all of it.

Beca feels like throwing up. 

A part of her wants to set the entire lab on fire, with her dad still inside it.

Instead she stumbles to the door without looking back, even as he starts calling her name again. Maybe he's following, but she doesn't care. 

She speeds up, despite the pain.

*

She's out on the street -- the blasting sounds of the city in her ears, nearly drowning out her pounding heartbeat -- before she can think to grab keys or her wallet. Just the cash in her pocket and the faded leather jacket she shrugs over her shoulders.

Maybe that's enough. 

Beca has to hope so, at least, because she doesn't want to go back there anytime soon.

*

It's not even the fact that all her weaknesses are so clearly exposed that bothers Beca most.

Sure, every psycho with a screw loose who has it in for any of their families now knows exactly where (or who) the weak link is since Beca turned back up again a total mess. Any time they want to take any Avenger down, she can expect someone else at the door or waiting for her in a van around the corner. 

The sort of nightmares that are valid and last forever. 

But that's not the worst part. 

Somehow it's the idea that all these assholes they'll never know could potentially see those shots of Chloe and laugh about it or jerk off or fucking whatever it is that random strangers on the internet do when they get their hands on footage nobody wanted them to see--

Either vomit or violence for her right now. She's not really sure there's much of an in between option.

*

Once something's out there, you can't stop it.

Momentum. It's basic physics. 

The more Beca thinks about it, the faster she gains speed.

*

The plan is to go buy a drink in some dive bar on the other side of the city because it's the kind of dumb mistake her dad would make for himself, and hate to see Beca make too.

Maybe she's that brand of vindictive tonight.

She doesn't even make it halfway there before the paparazzi are on her, walking close, cameras trained on her face. Her hands are jammed down in her pockets and her shoulders are shifting, raised high, like she can block the sound out if she stoops enough, but one guy is moving extra close, talking especially loud.

He asks something, voice low and rough, snagging something in the center of her chest.

She doesn't even hear the question. Just Chloe's name.

He says Chloe's name and Beca hits him so hard she almost shatters her first and the camera.

The sharp and sudden wheeze of air that comes tumbling out of her is half triumphant. They catch that on camera too. There are at least twenty cell phones, and more being pulled out by the second.

Zoom in extra close on the way the smile twists on her face when she looks right into the lens.

That's the one all the blogs and news stations will pay for, playing on almost endless repeat. (Aubrey really has her work cut out for her on Twitter now.)

But when Beca flexes her hand into a fist, it only stings a little.

She kind of likes it.

* * *

Sometime well before Beca was born, her dad sobered up.

No rehab, of course. Tony Stark doesn't do dependency or asking for help. He barely even wants to acknowledge when any kind of assistance or correction is required.

Stubborn doesn't begin to cover it. 

It was the first pregnancy scare that did it, probably. That's what her mom tells her more than once. 

"I told your father that I was only interested in raising one child at a time," she sometimes says with that overly sincere tone of voice that makes Beca feel uncomfortable. "He'd have to grow up." 

Whenever she talks like that, it's harder for Beca to forget that her parents are actually real people, just like her. Sometimes it's easier to think of them the same way she does her machines. 

Important and lovable, sure, but fixable too. 

Just tighten the right screw, maybe lather on some oil. Good as new.

*

The news cycle still loves Tony, but only as they want to remember him. He gives good sound bite, but it's less fun when you can't package it around a disastrous love affair or an all weekend booze binge gone wrong.

They ask him loaded questions about his wife's close friendship with Captain America, and how does he feel about it. "Ever jealous, Tony?"

"Constantly," he says, looking directly into camera, maybe admiring his own reflection against the lens. "Steve's a great looking guy."

*

Maybe she learned a thing or two about how to handle things from her dad.

* * *

Beca's face, that smile twitching at the edge of her expression, is already up on half the channels.

It's playing up in the corner at the bar when she sneaks in, but nobody is paying too much attention. It's easy enough to change it using an app she programmed, phone shoved deep in her pocket.

She switches over to a replay of the baseball game and settles into a booth seat near the back. She wants to stay far away from most of the people gathered close to the bar, anxious for each other's attention on a Friday night. 

Attention is the last thing Beca wants. 

"Hello, ma'am, how are you," the waitress smiles at her, but the expression falters. It's brief, almost nothing, but Beca sees the look of recognition in her eyes. She's seen it all her life. "… can I get you something?"

She probably has to know that Beca is underage, but there's also a chance that she's seen very recent proof that Beca Stark is violent and easily provoked. Maybe she's just humoring her until she calls the cops. 

"Vodka tonic, I guess."

The "guess" is probably a bad idea. It's the thing that gives the girl just enough pause. 

"… can I see some ID?" 

Beca looks up at her and tries not to smirk. "Seriously?" But the lady just nods and Beca shrugs, resigned. No wallet, no fake IDs. No bulletproof plan to sabotage her life (and her dad's at the same time). "… okay, so gimme a water."

The girl looks about ready to object at that too, but something makes her hesitate. 

Maybe the bruising on Beca's knuckles close to where the skin split, awkward flecks of blood dried in a skittered pattern spiraling away from her palm. 

Maybe that.

*

NY1 is running shots of her every commercial break, promising an exclusive report at the top of the hour, and Beca wishes she had one of Jesse's dumb incognito hats.

It's not like they work, but it's a good idea to at least give the impression of making the effort, she thinks. Harder to tell people to fuck off when they stare if you just look like yourself. 

Not that she isn't tempted.

*

"Look, if you're not going to order something that costs actual money, I'm going to have to ask you to leave." The waitress is back again, fidgety and anxious, pretending that they don't both notice the people who have started to watch Beca casually out of the corner of their eyes.

She hasn't had as much experience with this particular brand of make believe as Beca has.

Because even though she still feels sick and angry, hurt and betrayed, basically all of the above, Beca manages to contain it all behind a smile that's almost convincing. Maybe. "So that's still a no on the vodka tonic, right?"

"You still don't have ID?"

Beca straightens, shifting forward in the booth. "We both going to pretend you don't know who I--"

"Hey, I got this one."

It's like something out of a movie, except in the moment when the heroic figure comes to the rescue, the person being saved is supposed to be flush with gratitude, right, instead of suddenly squirming in uncomfortable terror. 

Because here's Beca, who is pretty sure she's sweating, profusely, and she can barely look up from where her eyes have locked on the waitress' name tag -- Cindy, with a smiley face over the I. 

Because she'd know that voice anywhere.

* * *

(Sometimes in that place between the numbness and the pain, Chloe would whisper to Beca in the dark. She wasn't always sure that she was awake, but she knew that voice. She knew when it was her friend and when it meant danger.

"I've got you," she said, and it wasn't always a threat. Sometimes familiar fingers worked themselves into Beca's hair, scratching at her scalp, and it felt almost like a promise. 

It felt like hope.)

* * *

It's hard to even look at Chloe now without seeing the way the pixels had distorted her face. How it shifted when she screamed.

Maybe the alcohol was a bad idea, but Beca can't stop staring at the glass. 

The better to avoid any and all eye contact, at least. 

"You look good," Chloe finally says, taking slow, measured sips of her own drink. It's something fruity and slightly pink, with a lime balanced on the rim. 

Every once in a while, Beca looks at that, when she still can't face the woman holding it. "You used to be a better liar."

Chloe shrugs, and she finds herself following the movement of her shoulders. The shape of her hair. (Not the eyes.) "You usually look better." Beca's pretty sure she might be smiling, but it's hard to say exactly. 

She shifts her attention back to her drink and works to finish it off quickly, setting it down into the space between them.

Neutral territory.

Chloe waves over the waitress, who still hasn't stopped hanging around close to their corner. Like she's afraid Beca's somehow going to start a fist fight with no one else around. "Can I get two waters? Thanks." 

"Subtle…" 

But Beca can't help her grin. She kind of wishes she could. It's a real problem, being so easily amused by Bartons. For just a moment, she catches herself looking Chloe directly in the face, and it's almost easy to pretend that this is just like old times.

Like how Chloe shrugs with a sort of put upon bemusement. "You're too hardheaded for that."

She's not exactly wrong. 

The waters come and Beca can't help but notice Chloe still nursing her drink, smiling about something. The way she's acting, like everything is normal, makes Beca almost forget all that resentment she's carrying in her shoulders. "You going to finish that?" 

"That was the plan."

"One sip?"

Chloe hesitates, but nods, just once. "If you're sure you can count." 

So Beca makes a point of it. Just one sip, slow and precise, and then smacks her lips together. Maybe a bit dramatic. "Good shit." 

"Yeah, so can I have it back now?" 

Beca puts it back down into the space between them and Chloe snatches it away to finish off in just one gulp. Beca drums her fingers (awkwardly, off rhythm), but smiles. "Don't trust me?"

Chloe stops and looks at her like the question means more than the obvious. And maybe it should. 

Maybe she shouldn't pretend to forget everything so easily.

*

The water was probably a good idea. Not that Beca would admit it.

But hydrating is helpful. 

She feels more clear headed, really present, right up until the moment Chloe starts saying something like, "I do, you know. I trust you." 

That hits her like a truck. 

The way a heel of a knife feels when it almost shatters your collarbone. 

Like the flat edge of the plank of wood they used to hit Chloe with, over and over, jittering where the file became corrupted.

Beca feels a little bit like choking. Maybe that's the water, or it could be something else. "Yeah, well you fucking shouldn't." 

Chloe looks away, like she's just been blamed for something, and Beca wishes she could make her understand. She wishes she could shake her. Tell her everything. The man she saw at the restaurant that day, before he grabbed Chloe and took her away. The hours of private pain and torture she had no business witnessing. The files on her dad's computer. 

That the files are out there, and it's only a matter of time.

All those selfish things that make her sick. She wishes she could share them with someone.

That's the kind of asshole she is. 

"You mean like how you shouldn't trust me?"

Chloe's voice is so quiet, Beca has to lean closer to hear it. The vinyl of the booth squeaks as she shifts. "No," she breathes out, reaching out for Chloe's hand lying on the table. Like a lifeline. Like an anchor. "Not like that at all."

"You hurt your hand," Chloe says, softly, as she curls her fingers around the bruises on Beca's knuckles. Gently. 

It makes her almost want to recoil back to the safety of her own side of the table. She's too self-conscious, mumbling, "Yeah, well you hurt all the rest of me." 

And then Chloe does draw back, rapidly. 

Like it was a reprimand, and of course it must have sounded like one. 

Because Beca is still swinging blindly, taking swipes at anyone that stands too close, no precision in her aiming. Maybe that's a result of the injury too. She used to control the guided missile systems through careful and precise wrist movements. 

Though she's never been especially careful when it came to speaking, and yet somehow Chloe always understood. 

Until now.

"That's not what I meant."

"Except it's true." 

Chloe's shrug is stiff, like all of Beca's joints, and it creates a sharp and jolting impulse that sends Beca's hand back across the table in search of that contact again. It's less gentle this time as she snatches to grab Chloe by the hand. "No, I mean I don't give a fuck. That's all. My hand or my… whatever. I don't care."

"I do," Chloe whispers, without pulling her hand away.

But Beca knew that somehow.

Even without being told. 

Because Chloe has always cared, even when Beca didn't. 

Maybe especially then.

"I'll get it checked out in the morning, if you want."

"Good," Chloe says, careful not to make it sound like it's a question. 

Give Beca Stark too many options and she might find a way to slip out of them. 

And Chloe probably knows that better than anyone. "Are you going home soon?" she asks quietly, pushing a few loose strands of hair back behind Beca's ear. "… well?" 

Beca shrugs and shifts. She reaches for the water again. "I don't know. Maybe."

Somehow Chloe has moved in closer, and it reminds Beca of days spent together in the lab. One hip against the other, with Chloe breathing down her neck or peering over her shoulder. But the thing they're trying to put back together this time is Beca's life. Or Chloe's. Maybe both.

Life together or something else like it. 

"Beca…" 

When Chloe rests her chin against Beca's shoulder, she doesn't pull away. Even if she should. 

Deep breath in. Long breath out.

*

Even though it's late, nobody's asleep at the Barton house.

That makes sense. They all probably stay up waiting anytime Chloe leaves the house now. 

Natasha looks up first, making momentary eye contact before looking back down at her magazine. Neither of them say anything as Beca sheepishly kicks off her shoes. 

"Night, dad. Mom." Chloe talks quickly as she reaches back for Beca's hand, pulling her along.

Clint opens his mouth as if to speak, but Natasha kicks him (hard) with the heel of her foot. 

Being the broken girl that no one wants to say a word to can sometimes have its advantages. When Jesse bursts out of his door and into the hall he stumbles to a stop a few inches in front of them, mouth wide open, almost stammering. "Uh… hey, Beca." 

She realizes belatedly that there's still blood on her knuckles. "… hey." 

"Good _night_ , Jesse." Chloe tugs again, shouldering her brother aside as they pass. He huffs and gives Beca the same mildly outraged expression he generally shoots over his sister's shoulder whenever she evicts him from her room or un-invites him from a slumber party.

"But--" 

Chloe shuts the door before he can continue and the only sound that follows is a lot of Jesse's indignant heavy breathing. 

They grin at one another.

*

Chloe takes the time to clean Beca's knuckles before bed.

When Beca raises her eyebrows, she shrugs. "You're not getting blood on my sheets, Stark."

*

The last time Beca slept here, the smell of Chloe in the sheets had started to fade. Now it's everywhere again. The pillow Chloe hands her smells like Chloe's shampoo. So does the t-shirt that Beca pulls on awkwardly with her back turned, using only one hand.

The light filtered into the room alternates red and white from sirens passing in the street outside. Both of them tense, as though ready to spring into action, but then they remember. 

They aren't those people anymore.

*

Beca lies very still on Chloe's bed, hardly even breathing to keep the mattress from creaking. She only shifts when Chloe comes back in and tosses a bag of frozen peas almost directly at her head.

"Shit, what--"

"Sorry, your head moved." 

"How short do you think I am exactly?" 

Chloe slips into the bed beside her and Beca feels her entire body grow tense. They were almost exactly like this the night that--

She rolls over to face Chloe, both wide-eyed and very still. 

Neither speaks for a moment, and then Chloe attempts a smile. It's not light-hearted, but it would like to be. "You're lucky Jesse didn't make his shallots and spring pea salad tonight after all."

As if to punctuate her point, Chloe shifts the bag of peas up onto Beca's clenched fist. The one she currently can't flex without jolts of pain flashing behind her eyelids. She grunts and pretends not to feel it. (She pretends not to feel anything.) "What the fuck are spring peas?"

"I think it's a fancy way of saying olive oil and pepper." 

Somewhere in the back of Beca's mind, she's dimly aware that her dad would be able to turn this into a joke about her mom. Somehow.

But she's coming up blank.

"I'll thank Jesse in the morning, I guess."

"God, no. His head's big enough already." The bag of peas begins to slip from Beca's hand back to the mattress, so Chloe shifts it (gently) back into place. "It's amazing he can even fit through the door anymore." 

"He--" Beca yawns. "I'm pretty sure he ducks."

"That explains it." 

Another set of sirens pass and both their eyes move to the window across the room. 

"Should we--"

"No, you should sleep," Chloe insists firmly. "We both should."

*

Halfway through the night, Beca wakes to find the bag of peas wrapped to her hand with an extra bulky ace bandage.

She has no idea how Chloe managed it, and can't ask with her still asleep at Beca's side.

*

In the morning she wakes to Chloe's hip pressed close to hers.

The exposed delicate underside of Chloe's wrist and curled fist is pressed directly against Beca's side. There's a bruise there still, but she hardly feels it now. She breathes and Chloe's body moves against her. Everything feels in rhythm, almost like they used to be.

It almost seems too easy. Beca can't help but think of all the reasons she doesn't deserve to be lying here now. The moment of hesitation that almost cost them everything -- maybe it still did -- and every single small and subtle betrayal inside the cave.

And of course, the video.

The memory of those blurry megapixels comes rushing back so suddenly that, when she blinks, Chloe's face almost distorts. Beca thinks she could choke on her own vomit. 

Instead she reaches out to grab for Chloe, fingers fisting in her shirt. 

And Chloe's eyes are open in an instant. She's alert and still very much alive. Still her, still here. "Beca," she says like it's a question or a concern. Like a name can contain everything. "What's wrong?"

There are flash bulbs of panic going off at the back of Beca's mind, and the queasy feeling spikes up again inside her. But with Chloe's eyes on her, Beca feels a sudden calmness somehow.

From this close up, she has found some of the space in between.

She takes a deep breath. Starts again, speaking slowly with her voice rubbed raw. "We've got a problem, Chlo…"


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As with every single chapter of this fic, I would not have been able to finish without the constant help and encouragement of talented and supportive people.
> 
> It also looks like there's one more left to write. I hope you enjoy them.

*

        Plod on, and each one as before will chase  
        His favorite phantom. ―  William Cullen Bryant, Thanatopsis

*

_"We've got a problem, Chlo…"_

Beca only gets as far as the word "problem," and suddenly Chloe is completely alert. There's tension running through her spine even as her expression remains mostly calm. It's the kind of thing that could be intimidating on anyone other than Chloe.

Even now, Chloe doesn't frighten her. "What's up?" There's a confidence at the heart of Chloe's every action that says she can handle this -- whatever it is. Even her blinking seems centered. 

Beca has never felt that way, especially not first thing in the morning. 

Especially not now.

After last night, everything is even more uncoordinated, stiff, and bruised, but there are mental hurdles too. Chloe's confidence is helpful in that much, even if she can't remove the still-bleeding cracks from Beca's knuckles.

There are a lot of things about Chloe that Beca finds comforting. Her familiarity is one of them. 

Because even her smell is familiar. 

It's not just the pillow or even the t-shirt that Beca borrowed late last night, but also the way her hair smells when she shifts closer across the bed. 

Chloe's hand moves too, reaching out for Beca's, without pausing to think. This is how things work between them, and always have. 

One girl reaches out into that empty space between, across their ages and other differences. Chloe's hand pulling Beca along through life, despite the younger girl's shuffling feet and anxious glances. Chloe doesn't mind and doesn't waver.

Except everything is different now. 

Now Chloe's hand is halfway there before she thinks better of it and retracts again.

*

(In the cave there had been no half-measures. Only absolutes. Beca screamed. She bled.

They both cried.

The impostor kissed Beca's mouth and there was nothing of Chloe whatsoever on her tongue. 

An absolute stranger. Cold and distant.

Her fingers had twisted in Beca's hair until she groaned and whimpered, giving her everything she wanted. She gave her everything and more.

No half-measures.)

*

Beca starts to tell Chloe everything, every detail she remembers about the data files and video on her father's server. The way the image had jerked and jittered and how Chloe's body hung limp in her chains.

There's a burning copper taste in Beca's mouth and she wonders if it might be hate. Maybe she bit her tongue hard enough to draw blood and can't even feel it through the haze of her anger.

Halfway through the story, Chloe reaches out again. She takes Beca's slightly less damaged hand in her own and slowly squeezes.

* * *

Beca is eleven the first time the Bartons take her to their house in the middle of nowhere. She calls it a cabin at first, but then Jesse looks vaguely offended.

"What is it then?"

"Top secret," Jesse says, as though it's obvious, even though it doesn't address the question at all. 

Clint hefts a bag onto his shoulder and carries an armful of board games up from the car. "And completely off the grid." 

Beca can't help but consider that a challenge.

*

It probably wasn't intended that way.

*

She rigs a remote connection to the internet into existence in less than three hours using spare parts from the garage and the soldering iron Clint apparently keeps in the trunk of the van.

(Although that might actually belong to Natasha instead. Beca doesn't ask.)

*

It almost becomes a tradition. They go off somewhere remote to decompress and get away, and Beca plugs back into civilization before the sun even sets.

One day at fifteen she hops online within the first ten minutes of arriving at the farm, and the images that load up on the browser almost cause her to drop her phone. 

She recognizes the guy, vaguely. 

Chloe dated him a few times in the spring. He stopped by one day, uninvited, when they were all hanging out. That's when Chloe broke things off. 

Bartons don't really like people who can't maintain a professional distance when called to. (Even in relationships.) 

This guy obviously doesn't understand the concept. 

Because it seems clear to Beca right away that he uploaded these photos himself. Chloe is asleep in bed, one half-naked leg slung out from beneath the sheets, and his hand is up her shirt while he mugs to the camera. 

Beca's first impulse is to want to destroy him.

As it is, she barely resists the urge to toss her phone against a wall.

* * *

If Chloe is panicked, she's hiding it well.

If anything, she seems even more calm than she had at the bar the night before. Then she had been concerned and earnest, ruffled around the edges. Now her hair is perfectly arranged. She's showered and smells like something fresh. Maybe lemons? She smiles apologetically when reaching past Beca for the coffee pot. 

Her lack of freaking out is really making Beca want to freak out.

Apparently they're going to have breakfast together, before anything else. Bacon, eggs, and sausage. Like everything is normal. 

Beca isn't actually sure where the food came from, though. Natasha is out and the only thing Clint can make is coffee. 

Maybe it was Jesse.

Because Jesse is there too, eyeing them both like he's afraid one of them is about to jump across the table and smack him. "So," he says, speaking slowly; "how did the two of you sleep?"

"Don't distract her," Chloe interjects quickly. "She needs to eat."

Beca nearly chokes on her next bite, which would be a horrible waste of bacon. "What, and you don't?"

"You haven't been eating well." Beca starts to object, but Chloe cuts her off again; "If you were, you wouldn't have bruised your entire hand on one guy's face."

Beca reflexively darts her hand back under the table before Jesse can get a good look at it. (She can't really argue, though.)

Jesse's look has changed from mildly cautious to outright suspicious. "So the sleep was good, Chlo?"

"Yep." When Chloe smiles at him, it's with all her teeth. They're practically gleaming. "Everything is great, Jess."

* * *

They're fifteen, sixteen, seventeen years old, and their faces are everywhere. Certain websites offer a premium for images of any of them in the nude.

Legally obtained or otherwise.

Tony puts in a lot of effort, tracking down ISPs and tracing back through secured servers, but he doesn't come back with anything. Natasha makes a similar attempt that doesn't turn up any of those particular creeps, although she manages to bust a black market cell in Minnesota of all places.

*

Odds are the creeps and pervs were just bored, right? They'll move on in a little while.

Find some new innocent victim to harass. 

Except then that photo is out there now, and this time the creeps and perverts are the media on the phone and at their doorstep. 

At least, you have to assume they're on the doorstep of the Barton brownstone back in Manhattan. It's hard to say really when the entire family is out at the farm, holed up playing a night of charades.

Off the grid, like Clint says.

Not that charades is serving as much of a distraction. 

It's pretty fucking pointless, actually. Like not even specific to tonight, but on a grand scale. The teams are never balanced. Natasha always wins.

Sure, they're almost at the point in the evening when Clint starts getting frustrated that nobody picks up on what he apparently considers the nuance in animation styles of Christmas holiday specials in his portrayal of different kinds of reindeer. That's usually good for a laugh, or at least a bewildered chuckle.

But Beca's heart really isn't in the game. 

(Not just one photo, actually. There were three, each progressively more exposed. Beca felt sick even looking, like she was complicit somehow. Like if she could have made herself look away faster, if someone like her wasn't there to scroll down and see more, the dickhead would have never uploaded them to begin with. As if that's how it all works.)

"You okay?"

Chloe is supposed to be guessing whether or not this is Rudolph's Shiny New Year or the more traditional Red-Nosed Reindeer, but instead she's pressed up close to Beca's side. Her breath smells like mint. She's clean and fresh.

Perfectly composed. 

"Yeah, I'm--"

"Practically green." 

Beca thinks she ought to object, but Chloe is suddenly declaring a stoppage of play to drag Beca to the back porch, arm slung around her shoulder. 

Some days they sit out there and watch the sun setting in the distance while Beca tries to imagine what all this green landscape once looked like at this time in the evening before ozone layer depletion began to set the world on fire.

Tonight she just feels sick to her stomach.

"You want to talk about it?" Chloe's legs are curled up beneath her, precise and delicate, but she's still close. She still smells like mint. 

Beca tries to smile, but her stomach rolls instead. "I don't know…" 

"See anything cool online?"

She has to look away. It's not as though she isn't aware that Chloe knows. 

Of course she knows. It's why they came here, isn't it? 

Still. 

If Beca looks Chloe in the eye, then she might see the images burned there somehow. She'll know how long Beca hesitated, considering that exposed stretch of calf muscle.

The ways in which this is almost Beca's fault, or someone a lot like her.

She swallows. "Your dad said off the grid."

"He says that every time, Beca."

"Yeah, so--"

"So it's handled." Chloe lifts her eyebrows, half-challenging. 

Of course Beca takes the bait. "He's alive, right?" She feels angry. Like, _really_ angry. Her hand is aching because she can't stop clenching it into a fist. "So I guess I wouldn't say it's really handled yet."

"We don't kill people for being assholes."

"Maybe we should." 

She's raising her voice, as if this is somehow Chloe's fault. 

And if there's anyone she shouldn't be mad at, it's Chloe.

(That only makes Beca angrier with herself.)

"You don't mean that."

"… no." She deflates, but only a little. "I don't. Sorry."

*

Except a part of Beca does mean it.

Not dead, exactly, though.

(Too easy.)

* * *

Chloe drives, of course. It's not just because of Beca's wrist, either.

It's always made the most sense for her to be behind the wheel, while Beca sulks along in tow. Maybe advises from the passenger seat occasionally.

That much she can do.

*

"Are you seriously taking the West Side Highway this time of day?"

When Chloe grins like she is right now, sunglasses glinting (casting Beca's reflection back in her face as she turns), she looks like something out of a movie.

She is the stuff daydreams are made of. 

Even her voice is something lyrical, like the pop music coming through the speakers. "You really going to pretend you know more about driving in the city than I do?" 

They're in Tony's car. 

It's the most noticeable and flashy one he owns. It basically screams _I have money, so pull me over, officer, before someone steals whatever's in the backseat_ , except it turns out what's in the backseat is a metal suit that only responds to certain Stark family members and their basic biology.

(That one actually works with mom, too.) 

"I know a lot about the city."

"From above, maybe."

The music's bass vibrates against the back of Beca's thighs, tingling at the tips of her fingers when she sits on her hands to keep from fidgeting further. 

Chloe's got a point. Or at least she would have. 

Before.

*

Maybe now Beca doesn't really know much about her city at all, high or low.

It's okay.

It always kind of treated her like a shitty stranger anyway. 

Like that roommate you thought you liked before you hang out again and suddenly you remember every time she left her smelly socks in the kitchen for no good reason.

*

(But instead of socks it was the pile of trash they pulled up to curbside on their way crosstown a half hour ago.

Which is worse. A lot worse.)

*

They stop at a gas station, and Beca is immediately on the alert.

She tenses and pulls a baseball cap down low, copying from Jesse's playbook of half-assed incognito. "Maybe this isn't such a good idea, Chlo."

She's still advising, see. Just like that. 

"We need gas." 

"There's enough in the tank for the airport. Are you kidding?" 

"And Pringles," Chloe says, tucking her keys in her pocket. "Can you go grab me some Pringles?"

Beca stares at her.

Chloe smiles. "Unless you'd rather pump the gas."

"… you want regular or sour cream?"

*

She should have picked pumping gas.

The thing Beca forgot about the gas station is that there would be people inside. The kind that stare too long at her dad's car (her dad's wealth), and then look her over like she's got something on her they might want. 

Maybe it's money. Could be sex. Everybody wants something.

Beca used to wear her resentment on her sleeve, prickling outward like the sharp edges of her teeth -- the crooked angles of her elbows when she shoves her hands deep into her pockets and sulks -- but lately she feels an almost impossible compulsion to be liked. 

Like the animal inside her thinks she's still stuck inside a cave, desperate to win the approval of every predator around her. 

(Maybe then they'd let her out.)

Not that this kid behind the counter is much of a predatory type. He's awkward and anxious in a way that's painfully familiar. Too much acne, and a desire to seem convincingly disaffected. "You need help with something?"

He wants to sound bored, but he did just offer a stranger help at a gas station.

That's about as over-invested as you can get.

"Um, yeah." Beca turns away from the riffled through rack of road maps, worn and faded at their edges. "Pringles?"

"… seriously?" 

"Not my idea, man." 

The kid shrugs and points, but then starts to move around the counter. 

But Beca hastens to move where he was just pointing on her own, holding up a hand to stop him mid-stride. "You know what, I think I've got it under control. Thanks."

*

She doesn't actually remember which flavor Chloe said she wanted, so she grabs all three.

*

"Sure took your time." Chloe is back to wearing the sunglasses and a smug grin. "If you want to keep flirting with the infant behind the counter, be my guest."

"Jealous?"

But Chloe just laughs and ducks inside the car. "He's really not my type."

That's not what Beca meant, but Chloe knows that.

She thinks.

* * *

That asshole with the cell phone photos and the sickening smile was a student over at NYU, which still made him at least a year older than Chloe. She probably met him at the park one night.

She had a thing for freshmen who thought they were being really bold in the brave new world of New York City. They were like lost ducklings bumping their heads against Manhattan, eager to be liked. Something about the slightly aimless types really seemed to appeal to her.

Maybe she warned him off from buying pot from one of the many undercover cops that hang out in Washington Square Park, or they could have got into a conversation over a slice of pizza. It didn't matter. He didn't. 

That was the point.

But then he started showing up, inserting himself into their lives. He showed up at the brownstone uninvited, and Chloe's smile slipped away like a gate snapping shut. She led him out into the hall with a hand clamped around his wrist, but her touch wasn't nearly as sharp as her voice. 

Beca barely managed to contain the sudden pleasant feeling in her stomach that she couldn't quite pin down, although her expression was perfectly contrite once Chloe returned to the room -- alone.

*

It was only a few months later that the photos went online.

The cable news stations talked around the images. They never showed them, naturally, but they might as well have filled in the google search terms for their audience. Some hipster art gallery in Brooklyn began to sell prints blown up on giant stretches of canvas.

When Beca closed her eyes and tried to find her center of calm, there was only burning red. Vivid splashes of anger marked the silhouette of Chloe still burned inside her brain. 

They got back from the farm, and the world was still on fire. Chloe stayed over at her place, but the reporters know how to track down a Stark or her friends. 

They're like sharks with blood in the water.

* * *

They pull off down a small and twisting side street along the way. It's nowhere Beca recognizes.

For just a moment, she considers checking google on her phone, but doesn't want to draw any satellite attention. "Chloe, what are we…"

But before she can even finish the question, the only other car in sight pulls to a stop in front of them and opens its doors.

Aubrey and Stacie step out, very obviously dressed as though they are Chloe and Beca. 

Complete with a super shitty wig atop Aubrey's head. 

Beca's awful day has just turned spectacular. "Oh my god." 

"Mouth shut, Stark."

But Beca is beaming, pulling out her phone to snap several photos. "Not ever again. Not about this, no chance."

Aubrey slaps the phone out of her face and huffs. "Chloe, if you allow her to get eaten by wolves while you're away, I promise that not a single Avenger, senior or otherwise, will blame you." 

It's almost impossible for Beca to let that go without further comment, but suddenly Stacie is rummaging around in the backseat of her dad's car. Not okay. 

Incredibly not okay.

"Can I help you there, Hill?" 

Stacie pops her head back up from the trunk -- how the hell did she _open_ the secured trunk -- and smiles. "It'd be a big help if you'd hand over the keys."

"The--"

"--keys, uh-huh."

Beca's gaze abruptly shifts to Chloe. "The keys?"

"Beca, I might not have been totally honest with you about how we're handling this." 

Aubrey doesn't bother to hide her (incredibly loud) laughter.

*

They don't all hang around as long as Aubrey would obviously like to stay to gloat. Two of them have to make it to the airport where there's a helicopter waiting, adorned with S.H.I.E.L.D. insignias.

"CR's agreed to fly us," Stacie says with a certain briskness to her step. 

"Just so we're clear," Aubrey adds as she lowers herself into the driver's seat; "that's yet another person Chloe entrusted with the secret plan before she bothered to tell Beca."

Beca's only response is to flick them both off as they drive away. Aubrey rolls her eyes as Chloe shoves Beca's hands back down to her side.

She feels a strange and almost giddy impulse to stick out her tongue.

Maybe the panic has finally passed.

*

They pull up to the farm house in the early evening, and it feels like they're racing the sun to the horizon. Beca finds herself drumming anxiously on the dash. If they hurry up, just a little, they can make it to the porch to watch it set.

She's not sure why she cares.

But maybe Chloe's noticed too, because suddenly she's driving faster.

"Come on," Beca says, bag slung over her shoulder. She adjusts her grip on the bag's strap and feels her bruised knuckles throb with pain. "The decaying ozone is beautiful this time of year." 

Chloe rolls her eyes but smiles.

The setting sunlight tracks shadows across the lawn, streaks of vibrant color disappearing over the line of the trees. The wood creaks slightly as Chloe settles in behind her, but Beca remains still. 

The only other sound is her heart beating and the low thrum of the arc reactor. It's already darker now, so that Beca can just make out the light through her own t-shirt. 

"If I go to grab a beer, are you going to insist I drink water instead?"

"I'm not sure dad's stash is up to your standards."

Beca turns her head and finds Chloe sitting even closer than she'd realized. 

She smiles and Chloe does too.

*

The first game they pull out is Mouse Trap.

"Your favorite," Chloe says, dumping the pieces onto the table.

Beca would like to object to that characterization, but Chloe has had a rough day, so she lets it slide.

Sort of. 

"I think favorite could be pushing it. It's just the only one with any engineering." Although that's probably pushing almost any acceptable definition of the word "engineering." 

"Right, I forget." Chloe digs at one of the smaller pieces stuck in a groove in the table, wiggling it with her thumb, but she takes a moment to favor Beca with a sort of patented Barton grin. "You were so grown up when you were ten." 

"I was eleven," Beca says with all the precise resentment of someone who has spent too much of her life telling everyone her proper age to compensate for her height. She catches herself starting to straighten her shoulders, sitting taller, and tries to slouch again immediately after in a very cool and casual way. "And really advanced for my age." 

"Always." 

"But I want to be the blue mouse." 

Chloe tosses it to her. 

Beca swats it down toward the game board rather than take the chance at failing to catch it with her injured hand. That might be embarrassing. "… and you're red, of course."

A smile moves quickly over Chloe's face, and then it's gone. "Of course."

* 

Like all good games of Mouse Trap, they only take turns for a couple of rounds before it devolves into a more direct attempt to assemble the pieces as quickly as possible so that they can spring the trap.

One problem with that, though.

"The bucket is missing."

There's actually a lot more panic in Beca's voice than there should be. Without the proper context, someone might really start to think that this is actually her favorite game. 

Chloe squints and moves closer to the edge of her chair, studying the tiny red and yellow pieces. "It's right here, isn't t?"

"No, that's the tub." Beca places the game's box down next to the playing area drawing invisible lines between the illustration and the real world example. "See, the guy dives into it. That's a tub." 

"So then where's the bucket?"

"Missing! Like I said."

Both Beca's head and the box top drop down to the table at once. 

"Can't you just… drop the marble yourself?" Chloe must still be squinting. Beca can hear that particular slow quality in her voice that she only uses when considering something very carefully. "Or make something to hold it in place."

"Sure, Chlo. I'll just _make_ my own…"

Beca stops. 

She stands up.

And without even a glance back, she leaves the room.

* 

Natasha must have thought she'd hid the soldering iron well enough at the top of the master bedroom closet, just because none of the kids would be likely to walk into a room where adults might at some point be having sex.

But now that they have the farm house to themselves, Beca follows her instincts pretty quickly in tracking down everything that she needs. 

"You don't think this is a little excessive?"

Sparks stop flying for a moment and Beca lifts her visor to double check that Chloe isn't peeking. "Your dad hasn't fixed the guest bathroom sink since I started coming here. He's really never going to do it." 

"That doesn't mean you should just use the faucet." 

"I'm recycling."

Chloe huffs and Beca can tell that she wants to turn around and give Beca an especially pointed look, so Beca takes the opportunity to remind her once again not to look when the welding is happening. 

For both their sakes, really.

*

The new bucket (former faucet) doesn't exactly match the image on the box, but it's large enough to catch the marble. It's entirely possible that it could be a suitable replacement.

The only way to know for certain is to test it.

*

It's possible that Beca was over zealous. She should have waited just a little bit longer for the metal to cool.

Because metal, if it's warm enough, is perfectly capable of melting a plastic staircase into a puddle of blue goop.

"Oh, Beca," Chloe exhales, obviously still laboring under the mistaken impression that this is somehow Beca's favorite game in the whole world. "I'm sorry that--"

"I'm done!"

*

That was approximately seventeen minutes ago, which is about how long it takes for Chloe to come and find Beca on the roof.

"Are you almost finished sulking?"

"I'm not sulking," Beca says while nursing an entire bottle of wine in a way that some unreasonable people might qualify as sulking. 

Chloe nods slowly. "Are you almost finished drinking alone on my dad's roof then?"

Beca passes the bottle and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. She's not alone now, and maybe she never really has been. 

Maybe that's the point. 

Chloe takes a drink and passes it back, shrugging out of her leather jacket to drape it over both their shoulders. "Maybe we should play Trouble next. Something simple."

"We've both had plenty experience being that." Beca starts to give Chloe an exaggerated wink, but she's nearly shoved out from beneath the corner of the jacket in return. 

"You're lucky you're cute."

"Not luck. Genetics." She feels Chloe's elbow digging in sharply at her side, but makes no move to pull away. "Maybe I'll explain baby-making to you sometime, Barton."

* * *

The kid with the camera's name was Brad.

Beca didn't remember it and she never wanted to ask Chloe. The good and the bad news was that she didn't have to follow up, because suddenly he was everywhere.

His twitter follower count jumped quickly from double digits into something closer to 72k almost overnight. He started a youtube channel dedicated to answering questions and comments from other men with a seemingly infinite amount of frustration, particularly directed at women. 

He was an internet sensation, given the right circles. The kinds of blogs that regularly talk about the process of friendzoning and consider men who aren't routinely awful "beta males" took to him like some kind of deviant god.

*

Brad developed a careful system of plausible deniability. He often instigated his own internet hate mob, but only with carefully chosen words. Dog whistles for the dickish. He never directly engaged.

Chloe wasn't their only target of interest. 

They ordered pizzas and had them delivered under Aubrey's name. (She donated every slice to a nearby homeless shelter.) They called in a SWAT team to Avengers tower, but that never really stuck since nobody's ever in the mood to mess with Bruce. They showed up in masks to shout obscenities outside of one of Tony's press conferences, like they somehow forgot that the grandiose gesture is basically what he lives for. According to Aubrey, they made a habit of sending threatening messages to several of the fake twitter accounts that had been set up under Beca's name. 

The Barton household's home phone line had to be changed twice before Natasha pulled in a few favors and had it removed from any registry anywhere. 

The only reason they still have a landline at all is as a backup in case of some kind of massive attack that takes out all the cell towers. It's kind of important that it not get clogged up with assholes calling in so they can breathe heavily into Chloe's ear. 

One time someone calls when Beca's hanging out, and she answers despite Jesse's warning. "Listen, dick-breath," Beca says before anyone on the other end even has a chance to speak. 

The response is manic laughter followed by a dial tone.

"You can't let them get to you, Becs." Chloe hasn't even looked up from her reading (a field manual on administering emergency first aid), like maybe that's really true. Maybe none of this is getting to her.

Even though that almost seems impossible, especially when it rings again.

*

When Beca answers this time (in the face of both twins protesting now), the voice is different on the other end.

But the sound of hollow laughter is exactly the same.

*

Brad was never really just the one person anyway. He was legion.

They were all Brad, mugging to the camera.

* * *

(In the video, one of the masked figures grips Chloe by the hair and lifts her dangling head (limp body, sagging shoulders), and points directly into the camera. He instructs her to smile, but she only spits out blood.

He hits her, and her entire body falls slack.)

*

They wake up to the sunlight drifting in through the sheer curtains and Beca immediately regrets the fact that Chloe did not remind her to drink water last night.

She groans and shifts against the sofa, wincing once she discovers little plastic board game pieces flaking off the back of her leg. 

It's possible something like this is how the bucket originally went missing.

"Chloe?"

They both spent the night sleeping on the extra large leather sofa that is conspicuously out of place in the otherwise rustic interior of the farm, their ankles crisscrossed with their heads at either end. 

When Beca shifts and tries to dislodge one of the pieces with the back of her opposite heel, Chloe bumps her with her foot instead. "You squirm too much."

She starts to object, some smartass remark about how Chloe never cared before, but the sun is too bright for her to bother. It stings and she has to shut her eyes.

Water. She really needs water, but that would involve standing up.

Instead she listens to the sound of the house settling, the soft shifting of Chloe's feet against the leather, and the sudden creak of the wooden floorboards as Chloe leaves the sofa.

Apparently she can stand. What an asshole.

*

Beca waits approximately as long as she thinks it will take for Chloe to finish locating the breakfast cereal.

Clint has a tendency to hoard away the best stuff, hidden in little nooks all around the place. Like he's preparing for some kind of atomic level issue involving Frosted Flakes and he wants to secure his stash.

No milk, so Beca eats hers dry while Chloe apparently opts to dump water over her Cocoa Pebbles. "You plan to keep hydrated today, huh?"

Chloe sends her a vague look of amusement. "I kept hydrated last night."

Beca crunches down especially hard on a bite of sugary flakes. "Huh?"

"You passed out before me, remember?" Obviously Beca does not, and judging from the look on Chloe's face she already realizes that. "I tucked you in on the sofa…"

That seems unlikely.

But.

"No peas this time?" Beca crunches some more and fidgets in her seat. She thinks to hide her bruised and bandaged hand under the table (again), but she's too busy holding the cereal bowl close to her face. 

Chloe frowns and shifts forward in her seat. She's noticed the hand too. "You're bleeding again."

She starts to lift the edge of the bandage, but Beca quickly pulls back, chair scraping loudly across the wooden floor. "That's red wine, I think." 

It's not. 

Last night Beca reopened one of the small cuts on her hand when she tried to remove the bandage by herself in the bathroom sometime around 3am and peeled off some of the scabbed over skin along with it. Suddenly she remembers. Quite vividly.

If Chloe looks closer, she might notice a bit of blood speckling the sleeves of Beca's flannel shirt.

"Mmhm." 

Oh. She noticed.

Beca takes another bite and mumbles quickly around the flakes, "Your pebbles are getting soggy." 

Chloe doesn't even blink as she lifts another spoonful into her mouth.

*

One dry bowl of cereal and two large glasses of water later, Chloe suggests they go for a walk in the woods surrounding the farm.

Beca tries not to look confused. "Why?" 

"For the majesty of nature."

She can't tell if Chloe actually means that, or if that's spy code for something else. If it has some kind of secret meaning, there's no indication of what that might be in Chloe's expression when she stops and looks expectantly at Beca.

"Um," Beca mumbles, standing to search for her shoes. "Sure."

Chloe smiles, but makes no move to help her find them.

*

They still haven't talked about their problem -- that unspoken reason they escaped out here off the grid this time. Not talking is what they do best when it comes to a crisis, apparently.

They haven't really talked about any of it lately. 

Ever since Chloe disappeared into the back of a van and Beca was too helpless to stop it. Once Chloe came back -- except that she didn't really -- Beca was too ashamed to look her in the eye for too long, let alone ever think to bring it up to the surface again.

And now.

"Could you slow down?" 

Chloe is wearing what look like hiking boots, and Beca has no idea when she would have found the time to pack them. She's like a very deadly Girl Scout, always prepared and far too capable of speed-walking across rough terrain. 

But she slows down immediately, the moment Beca asks. Maybe Chloe thinks the complaint is related to one of Beca's numerous nagging injuries, because next she asks, "You okay?"

The need to go slow has a lot more to do with Beca's unsettled stomach and throbbing hangover, but she'll accept whatever sympathy she can get just at the moment. "Great." Beca grimaces from behind the purple tinted shades she has to assume belong to Clint. "Just appreciating nature's majesty." 

Without appearing to pause or even think it over, Chloe takes Beca's bruised and damaged hand inside her own and leads her for a little while, brushing branches out of their path.

*

They find a small clearing to rest in, with a rock and fallen log close enough together that they each have somewhere to sit. Beca thinks that it's a bit like something out of a Disney movie, the way the forest has provided them with everything they need.

Even the sunlight streaming through the trees is perfect.

Or maybe she's just spent too much time inside made-man constructions -- both physical and abstract -- to remember how the world can actually be alright when left on its own. It's people who always make things worse.

Some of them, at least. 

But when Chloe smiles and hands her a sandwich, for a moment it's almost easy to forget those kind of people exist. Or that anything exists outside this forest. Outside this moment. 

Except there's a falseness in Chloe's smile and the way her eyes consider Beca's face that doesn't match the rest of it. Unlike the rock she's sitting on, it's completely unnatural.

Everything about this suddenly feels rehearsed. "Chloe…"

And maybe Chloe's realized, because she's suddenly not making eye contact again. Her eyes are on her sandwich as she takes a bite and chews.

When did she make those anyway? 

Exactly how spontaneous was this idea to go out walking?

Something inside of Beca's stomach lurches. The sun is shining brightly, but she feels a darkness settling in fast. Her heart beats quickly in her own ears, like reverberations inside of a cave. 

There's something painfully familiar about how the sound seems to travel. (Echoes against a stone wall.)

When Beca looks up to meet Chloe's gaze, surprise is clearly registered on her face. She stands, tossing her sandwich aside in her rush to move closer. "Beca?"

Beca isn't sure when the world gave out underneath her, but suddenly she's on her knees in the dirt, trying to remember how to breathe.

"Beca," Chloe says again, and it must be louder, because there is a quality to her voice (scratching and sharp) that sounds like shouting, even though it feels empty and far away -- like sounds fracturing over a great distance. "Beca, hey." 

Beca's vision is blurred and she doesn't know why, but the world is shiny and round at its edges. Even Chloe. Everything is slipping past, like fingers scrambling in the dirt to pick up a knife.

Something. She remembers that from somewhere.

When Beca tries to scream, only a gurgling sound comes out, muffled against the fabric of Chloe's jeans as she cradles Beca's head in her lap and brushes hair back from her face. "It's alright," she says, although it isn't true.

Finally, quietly, Beca allows herself to cry as she clutches at the front of Chloe's shirt. 

Chloe's arms are strong when they wrap around her, and that's good. 

It's needed.

*

(In the cave, alone together, Chloe's blood mixed with Beca's and their heartbeats overlapped.

They eventually stopped crying, but it was only because they were too dehydrated. Their bodies had given up on tears completely.

But with one bruised and mangled hand gripped tightly in another, Chloe did not give up on Beca. Not yet.

Not ever.

No half-measures.)

*

She's not sure how much time passes. Chloe's hand never stills from stroking her hair, and that makes it harder to judge how long they've sat like this.

Eventually, the tears stop and the panicked clenching in Beca's chest subsides.

Neither of them speak for a while longer.

Beca raises her head up slowly and Chloe politely looks away while she wipes aside her tears. "Sorry," she says, breathing in deeply. "That happens sometimes."

Chloe nods, but says nothing else. Maybe she realizes how little Beca wants to talk about these things or maybe she already understands them too well herself.

That sudden panicked sensation of being somewhere else, not knowing fully who or where you are. The impulse not to trust her own sense of self. 

Or her friends.

"I should have explained," Chloe says eventually, reaching around to hand Beca back her sandwich and taking her own to eat crouched on the grass.

Something about their new positions, half-sprawled in the dirt, seems more appropriate. 

Beca's not sure why, but it's almost calming. Maybe it's best to stick close to the ground for now. (Fewer reminders of the sky she's left behind.)

She takes a deep breath. "Explained what?"

Chloe hesitates before taking another bite. Her eyes linger on Beca's face, but her expression is almost impossible to comprehend. The only things Beca recognizes there are worry, pain, and regret, but she can't fully understand their combination. 

Not until Chloe says, "I already knew about the footage."

*

Beca isn't sitting in the dirt with her sandwich anymore.

She's pacing and the sandwich is forgotten (again) on the ground, partially wrapped in foil. "You knew."

"Beca…"

"And you didn't--"

"Yes." 

"You _knew_?"

This time Chloe doesn't answer, so Beca has to stop pacing long enough to look. 

"You knew," she says again. 

"Yes." 

"And you're not freaking out."

It probably ought to be a question, but comes out sounding more like an accusation.

"Would that help?" Chloe asks, sounding incredibly sincere.

It's almost frustrating, how nice she's being. How well adjusted she seems just now, as if this is something that only damaged one of them. "Maybe!" Beca says, almost shouting. "Yeah, it might."

"I freaked out when I saw it," Chloe says, her voice still level and even. "I had a panic attack and barely left my room for a day and a half." She looks up and her smile is so accepting that it almost makes Beca feel like crying again. "And what I needed was someone to let me freak out the way I had to, so…" She gestures vaguely; "I'm letting you do what you need." 

Maybe that suffocating feeling is the beginning of tears, or maybe it's simply shame. Beca looks away, nodding a few times, mostly to herself. "But this is a problem, right? I'm not--" 

She almost says _I'm not crazy_ , but that's the loaded kind of question that neither of them should ask. 

Beca tries again, looking Chloe full in the face, "I'm not wrong about this. We need to fix it, right?"

Chloe nods, the very beginning of a smile starting to appear on her face. "Now that I'm not freaking out anymore, I actually have a few thoughts about that."

* * *

Almost as suddenly as he sprang up, one day Brad simply disappeared.

First his twitter account stopped responding to eager fanboys hoping for attention. Then his daily youtube updates never came.

There were a couple reddit threads at first shouting about some kind of massive social justice conspiracy to silence voices of truth. Then it spread to other sites in an ever growing frenzy. They drew up intensive diagrams in photoshop and speculated on which feminist journalist must have been so intent on silencing him that they might have resorted to violence. 

Beca watched all this from a dedicated rss feed that tracked any mention of Brad or his various social media accounts.

Roughly a day and a half after Brad disappeared, someone called in a bomb threat to a pro-NRA rally and suddenly the message boards had a new feeding frenzy to focus on. The strings of photoshop images tying Brad to a massive government conspiracy dried up.

It turned out that Brad had flunked anatomy. (How ironic.) Only a few people on message boards still seemed to even remember his name by the time the news hit that he'd lost his scholarship and dropped out of NYU before moving back to Illinois. 

The only place to run the story was as an insert on the the official school news source, just to the side of a blurb about whichever successful alumni was responsible for the latest summer blockbuster. Nothing more than a footnote to temporary history.

Beca couldn't even be annoyed that Chloe hadn't enlisted her to hack the system and change his grades. The poetry was too perfect, the punishment so complete. 

The only thing she could do was admire the quality of work.

* * *

After a few strategic hours of nearly manic conversation, Beca and Chloe return to the farm house to start their car ride back to civilization.

Neither of them bother to finish their sandwiches until they're already back on the road, with Beca tearing off bite-sized pieces and offering them to Chloe one at a time.

She uses the hand that isn't bleeding for that.

*

When they pull up in front of the Barton brownstone in the West Village, the paparazzi aren't already waiting for them. Not yet.

They haven't figured out yet that the reason Beca Stark and Chloe Barton aren't anywhere to be found in Mexico is because Aubrey and Stacie were the ones who disappeared together somewhere in Cancun (and have long since ditched the outfits).

But the sharks will work it out, eventually.

Especially once the video Beca just uploaded starts to go viral.


End file.
